Golden dawn bled through the eastern windows in thin, molten ribbons, catching on the wreckage of the night: twisted black silk sheets soaked dark in multiple places, pillows flung to the floor, one crimson curtain half-torn from its brass rod. The air still hung heavy with sex—musk, floral shampoo, the sharp metallic tang of overstimulation.
Akidna slept like someone who had been remade.
Curled on her side facing the empty space Aiden had occupied, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other draped protectively over the gentle, unmistakable swell of her lower belly. Her black hair spilled across the pillow in glossy waves; faint violet bruises bloomed along the column of her throat where his teeth and fingers had pinned her in ecstasy.
Lipstick-smeared kisses still marked the inner curves of her heavy breasts. Yet her face—peaceful, almost holy—wore the softest, most contented smile he had ever seen on her. Even unconscious, she looked utterly claimed. Utterly happy.
