Behind them, Victor watched.
Damien followed until the threshold.
Felicity stepped into the glow of her space and turned once more, cheeks warm, eyes bright, heart steady.
Voss closed the door behind them, and the hush of her gardened world fell over them both. The light was rose and honey, filtered through an unseasonal lattice of blossoms she liked to paint seasons that never were, or would never be again. He did not let go of her hand, did not let her walk farther than a step ahead, and when she turned to look at him, his eyes devoured her starved, predatory, the cool shell of his self-control shattered by how close she had come to dying.
He said nothing, just pressed her into his chest, arms wrapped so fully around her that she could feel the tremor in him. He needed her, and something inside her soaked up the need until it became heat, desire, a trembling ache under her skin.
