Campus Wilds
If Draven’s touch is fire, then Kael’s is the raw pulse of the storm: unpredictable, addictive, and always on the verge of another strike.
Rion takes his time. He settles at the foot of the bed, legs folded beneath him, blue eyes reflecting the distant, unhurried patience of glaciers. Of the three, only he avoids the easy assumption of ownership; he simply watches, his cool gaze sweeping over the aftermath of their carnage as if searching for some hidden pattern or deeper meaning. His hands are cold when they find her thigh, tracing idle, hypnotic designs up and down her skin—soothing, yes, but with the clinical thoroughness of a healer cataloging the damage. There’s a question in his silenc
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