The heavy oak door of their private chambers closed behind them with a soft, definitive thud, muffling the distant roar of the feast below. The room was a sanctuary of quiet luxury—thick rugs underfoot, a low fire already burning in the hearth, and the wide canopy bed draped in deep green velvet that matched the gown still clinging to Salviana's body.
Alaric did not speak at first. He simply turned the iron key in the lock, the sound sharp in the stillness, then crossed the space in three long strides. His hands found her waist, drawing her back against the solid heat of his chest. The scent of spiced wine and charred rosemary still clung faintly to them both, but underneath it was the darker, richer note that was purely him—rain-soaked iron and something older.
