Dane's POV:
The transition from the mountains to the suffocating silence of the estate was a jagged line I crossed at five in the morning.
As my car cut through the heavy, silver mist clinging to the driveway, the headlights swept over the sentries.
In unison, they snapped to attention. Stifled yawns were buried under rigid postures, hands locked behind backs. I stepped out of the car, the engine ticking as it cooled. The night's bite had faded into a damp, oppressive chill that settled in my lungs.
I didn't look at them. All I wanted was to see her.
I had spent the drive back imagining her stumbling out to the foyer, wrapped in my oversized robe, her hair a wild, dark halo, eyes sleepy and yet sharp.
The soldiers offered a sharp salute. I dismissed them with a curt, flick of my neck, my boots spraying a fine mist of slush onto the shimmered gold-cream rug as I breached the foyer.
My legs pushed harder, taking the stairs three at a time.
