The master bedroom was still and silent. The silver moonlight had faded, replaced by the deep blue of the pre-dawn hours.
Damon lay on the floorboards next to the bed. He had been staring at the stone wall for hours. His back ached from the lack of a mattress, and the single pillow now felt like rock under his head. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Camilla's mocking thoughts about his "broken sword." Every time he tried to sleep, he remembered the heat of her body pressed against his chest when they fell.
Finally, his exhaustion won. His eyes drifted shut. The sounds of the house—the occasional creak of wood, the distant hoot of an owl—faded away.
Damon woke up.
He felt a sudden change in the atmosphere. The room was still dark, but it was no longer quiet. He heard the soft rustle of silk. He felt a warmth that didn't come from the cold floor.
He tried to sit up. He wanted to reach for the sword that usually leaned against the wall, but he found out he couldn't move.
