Draven.
The corridor on the third floor was quiet at this hour, lit only by the faint golden wash of the wall lamps.
My boots made muted thuds against the polished wood as I climbed the last step, shoulders still heavy from the cold air of the woods and the weight of decisions made under torchlight.
I was halfway to my door when I noticed her.
Meredith stood outside my bedroom, barefoot on the rug runner, the hem of her light robe brushing her ankles.
Her silver hair was loose, spilling around her shoulders like liquid moonlight, and her arms were folded under her chest in what looked like an annoyed sulk.
Her bottom lip was pushed out just enough to tell me it wasn't simple annoyance — it was a full pout.
I stopped, blinking once. "Why are you standing outside my door in the middle of the night instead of sleeping?"
She shifted, gaze sliding up to meet mine, and the pout softened only slightly. "I was looking for you," she mumbled. "I knocked, but you didn't answer."
