The morning sun crested over the horizon of the island, casting a brilliant, blindingly bright ray of gold across the churning surface of the ocean. The light filtered softly through the sheer white curtains of the master suite, illuminating the tangled mess of silk bedsheets and the two men sleeping soundly within them.
There were no celestial alarms. There were no suffocating waves of primordial rot creeping through the shadows. There was only the rhythmic, steady crashing of the terrestrial tide against the rocky cliffs and the gentle, incredibly human sound of breathing.
Solis was the first to wake. He did not snap into consciousness with the adrenaline-fueled panic of a mafia boss under siege. Instead, he drifted upward from the depths of sleep with a profound, heavy lethargy that he had not experienced in years. His broad, muscular chest expanded as he took a deep, grounding breath of the crisp, salty morning air.
