Alistair knew Soraya was alive, but her appearance would give anyone including him pause.
The blood soaking her clothes and smeared on her pale skin stood out like ink on snow. Her lids were closed, her limp, crimson-stained hand curled in his. Only the barely perceptible, but steady, rise and fall of her breast reassured him that she still breathed.
Dark bruises colored the sides of Soraya's neck, and Alistair recognized the long shape of fingers. There were other signs of her struggle with the Knight Commander livid scrapes on her elbows and arms, split and swollen lips. He forced himself to inspect the wound just below her breastbone, and his jaw tightened.
Alistair glared at the lump beneath the bloodstained indigo coverlet three paces away, wishing Cullen were still alive and whole so he could beat him to death with his bare hands.
Perhaps sensing the anger that tightened his muscles, Soraya stirred, murmuring wordlessly. Alistair quieted his rage, soothing he