ARYA

He was curled on the bed in a fetal position. One hand clutched the sheets, the other was pressed to his temple as though he was trying to hold his skull together.

The room was dark, and the curtains were drawn. His breathing came in uneven gasps, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched so tight I was afraid his teeth would crack. Sweat beaded at his temples, his hair messily falling into his eyes.

"Daxton," I breathed, already at his side.

His head turned slightly, but ...