Dean woke at six in the morning.
He knew this before opening his eyes.
That was the worst part.
There had been no alarm, no knock at the door, and no security call vibrating insistently across the bedside table. The private suite remained completely silent around him, the curtains drawn against the winter morning and the room still dark except for the faint amber line of recessed lighting near the floor.
Dean lay beneath the blankets and resented his own body.
Hunter had been explicitly informed that anything short of fire, invasion, or an infected beast somehow reaching the palace gardens could wait.
Dean had gone to sleep with every intention of remaining unconscious until an indecent hour.
His body had apparently developed opinions.
Months of early departures, military briefings, flights, and meetings had carved six in the morning so deeply into him that his eyes opened anyway.
Dean stared at the ceiling.
Beside him, Arion slept peacefully.
That made it worse.
