The next morning, the morning light seemed to demand entry into my room. How bold.
It splashed across the wreckage of my bedsheets with an arrogance that almost matched my own. I lay perfectly still, my body heavy with a deep, liquid ache that served as a delicious map of the night's conquests.
I was surrounded in a tangle of limbs and ruined midnight silk, the center of a gravity well that had pulled the three most powerful men in the kingdom into a single, desperate heap.
To my right, Maegel was a sprawling landscape of cooling draconic heat. Even in the depths of exhaustion, his hand was clamped over my hip, his fingers buried so deeply in the silk they were nearly touching skin—a silent, subconscious claim to a hoard he clearly feared would vanish the moment he blinked.
