Darien's bedroom was usually a place of quiet power, a sanctuary of silk, dark wood, and the scent of expensive sandalwood. Tonight, however, it felt like a battlefield. The only sounds were the relentless, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the reinforced glass windows and the jagged, shallow breathing of the girl lying in the center of the massive bed.
Amara looked impossibly small beneath the heavy, charcoal-grey duvets. Her skin, usually glowing with life, had taken on a frightening, translucent pallor, broken only by the angry, feverish roses blooming on her cheeks. Every few minutes, a harsh, racking cough would tear through her frame, forcing a soft moan of pain from her lips as her bruised shoulder protested the movement.
