I gasped into the sudden contact, but his lips parted mine with a decisive, unyielding pressure, forcing the thick, iridescent liquid past my locked teeth and straight down my throat.
I winced automatically, my eyes squeezing shut as a soft, muffled whimper escaped my nose. The medicine was brutal—a harsh, thick, medicinal burning that coated the back of my tongue with an intense, suffocating bitterness.
Yet Draven's hand remained perfectly steady against my jaw, keeping me anchored until he was certain I had swallowed every single drop.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't move away. He remained hovering close, his dark eyes boring into mine as his thumb brushed across my lower lip, wiping away a stray, bitter drop of the liquid.
"Be still," he commanded softly, the low rumble of his voice carrying the absolute weight of a royal decree. "The fever will break. Now you sleep. It is an order."
