Kael crouched beside Freya, his battered hands barely steady because of the dull ache pulsing through his arm.
His fingers moved as he worked the cuffs, the steel releasing with a soft, satisfying click as he freed her wrists from the cold metal frame of the cot.
Bruises shadowed his knuckles, but his hazel eyes remained sharp, glinting with alertness beneath the swelling. Every muscle in his body coiled, alert, ready to knock her unconscious again if she so much as flinched the wrong way—but she didn't.
Freya sat motionless, her hair spilling over her face like a shimmering veil as she rubbed her wrists, her gaze fixed on the peeling wall ahead. She avoided his eyes entirely. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice so low it barely stirred the air, a fragile thread of sound carried on a shallow breath.
