While the Might Dragon and his mate found a temporary, feverish peace in the shadows of the estate, Theron was living through a very different kind of hell.
He entered his penthouse, the heavy reinforced door hissing shut behind him with a sound like a guillotine blade. He didn't even have time to take off his blazer before he was hit by a sensory assault that didn't belong in his home. The air, usually filtered to a sterile, scentless perfection, was thick with the smell of scorched honey, expensive jasmine, and a metallic, ozone-heavy tang that signaled the presence of high-level sorcery.
He didn't need to look toward the kitchen to know that Belica had not only stayed another night but had decided to treat his sanctuary like her personal playground.
