When Roxy stepped out of Syris's room after a few days, she felt as though she had just survived a hurricane.
She leaned heavily against the doorframe, pulling the edges of her thick silk robe tightly around her bare shoulders.
Physically, Roxy was completely wrecked. Her legs were trembling so violently they felt like overcooked noodles, her lower back throbbed with a deep, lingering ache, and the skin of her neck and collarbone was painted with a chaotic canvas of dark, territorial bruises.
But she was still glowing regardless. The anxiety that had been choking her for weeks was entirely gone, replaced by peace. Syris was currently dead to the world, sleeping off in the ruins of their bed.
Roxy took a slow, shaky step forward, intending to make her way to the nursery to see her children.
She didn't even make it past the first woven rug.
"I've got you," a smooth, incredibly fond voice murmured.
