MAEVE'S POV
MAEVE'S POV
His hand hovered in the air for a heartbeat longer before it dropped to his side. For a second, I thought I saw something flicker in his expression—pain, maybe. Guilt.
But I didn't care enough to know.
Without waiting for more of Revierrie's excuses, or for the stunned, judgmental stares of the other witnesses, I turned on my heels and stormed out of the sacred grounds.
Everything was too loud. My heart. My nerves. The noise around me.
It was a typhoon of a hundred emotions, a hundred sounds, all crashing into each other in waves.
Despite that, I found my way into the hallway, ignoring the few stunned side-looks from the guards stationed outside.
A maid had been instructed to wait just beyond the doors with a change of clothes for both Ivan and me—since it was tradition to burn the garments worn during a rejection ritual, a symbolic shedding of the past.
