The bedroom glows.
Not with moonlight—that's still there, silver through the windows—but with something else. Something golden and thick as honey, pouring through the air like liquid warmth.
I can smell jasmine. And something sweeter. Cream and honey and fresh bread and every scent that ever meant home to a child who never had one.
Madison's curled against me, her breathing deep and even, one leg thrown over mine. The sheets feel different. Softer. Like they've been woven from something that doesn't exist in normal reality.
Movement at the edge of my vision.
I turn my head.
She's standing there.
Tall—six and a half feet at least, but the proportions are perfect. Long legs, curved hips, a waist I could span with my hands, breasts full and real in ways that defy explanation.
At first, she is only silhouette and glow, an outline carved from the golden air itself.
