The morning light that filtered through the curtains was thin and clinical, casting long, sharp shadows across the familiar room. Mailah blinked, her head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache.
This was not the cottage. This was her bedroom in the estate.
She shifted, and a jolt of pain radiated from her leg, which was encased in a heavy medical splint.
Sitting by the small table was Dr. Soren Morrison. He looked as he always did—impossibly composed, his handsome face catching the light. He was the family physician, a man who had seen them through every one of their private, ugly fractures.
He had been called to her side time and time again, mending her muscles, her mind, and now even stitching her flesh with the restorative elixir he kept —a substance that acted with near-miraculous speed.
