The smell of freshly baked bread and simmering stew wafted faintly through the open window. Birds were already chirping outside by the time Oliver finally stirred.
He groaned, blinking against the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. His entire body felt sore and dry, every muscle stiff like he had fought a war — which, in a sense, he had.
"Ugh… my whole body's wrecked," he muttered, sitting up slowly. His lean frame was covered in faint red marks and scratches. His throat was parched, his abs still glistening faintly from sweat that had long since dried. "Damn it… that damned aphrodisiac. I swear, I'm never touching that thing again. I don't even remember half of things I have done last night"
From beside him, Isolde stirred. She turned lazily, one crimson eye peeking open. Her hair was a disheveled mess, spilling down her bare shoulders, yet somehow she still looked unfairly beautiful — like sin made flesh.
