SERAPHINA "Sera" MORTEZ'S POINT OF VIEW
One week.
Seven days since I pulled him from the river-bloodied, barely breathing, his green eyes half-closed when I turned his face up to the sky. I'd never really seen him clearly before, not the way other people do. Just a quick glimpse at the airport years ago, when everything was falling apart. But I knew his touch-the warmth of his hand in mine. I knew his voice, deep and rough, the way it used to make my knees weak.
Seven days of sharing this house with him. Seven days of changing bandages, bringing him water, watching him sleep. Seven days of his relentless flirting-and seven days of my body remembering things I'd tried to lock away. My skin still tingles when he speaks, and last night, I woke up with my underwear damp from words that were both sweet and sinful.
And now, a week later, he's fully healed.
