Saturday morning didn't arrive with the usual dread. Amara spent an embarrassingly long time in front of her closet.
She eventually settled on a pair of well-worn jeans and a soft, cream-colored knit sweater. Simple. Not a single thread that screamed "Dragon's Personal Assistant."
As she stood before the hallway mirror, checking to ensure her hair hid the fading violet evidence on her neck, she felt a strange flicker of nerves. It was just Hansen. Her childhood anchor. So why did her hands feel cold? She grabbed her keys, gave the small apartment a final, sweeping glance, and stepped out. The double-click of the lock felt like a period at the end of a very long, very exhausting sentence.
