RAIN'S POV
The first thing I felt was the warmth.
Not pain. Not blood. Not the cold bite of battle.
Just… warmth.
Then came the smell — pine, smoke, and that familiar trace of iron and wolf fur.
My eyelids fluttered open, heavy as stone. The world swam into focus.
Canvas ceiling. Soft candlelight.
The flicker of shadows on tent walls.
And then—
him.
"Batista…" My voice cracked.
He was sitting at the edge of my bed, eyes half-lit by the candlelight, bruised but smiling. His hair was messy, his jaw still bandaged from the fight. But he was breathing. He was alive.
I shot upright, hands flying to his face. "Is this a dream? Please—tell me it's not. I thought—you were dead—" The words broke apart, drowned in the flood of tears that burned down my cheeks.
He chuckled softly, leaning forward until our foreheads touched. "No, Rain. Not a dream. Not this time." His voice was low and warm, rough around the edges, but steady. "I'm here. With you."
