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The room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn to keep out the daylight. A single lamp cast a soft glow over the bed where Chase sat, cradling Emerald in his arms. The baby drank greedily from the nursing bottle filled with blood, her small fingers curling and uncurling against Chase's shirt. She was warm against him, fragile in a way that made his chest ache.

Arrow sat at the edge of the bed, his back against the headboard, his long fingers loosely gripping an empty blood bag. He hadn't said a word in the last hour. He hadn't even looked at the baby.

The tension between them was suffocating.

Chase shifted slightly, adjusting Emerald in his arms as he stole a glance at Arrow. He looked so different now—stronger, colder, like a man who had lived through centuries of battles and burdens. The Arrow Chase had known before was softer, more hesitant, someone Chase could even tease and fluster if he wanted.

This Arrow was unreadable.