I have survived nine years in a damp, freezing basement. I have survived a capital assassination attempt. I have even survived dropping the ceiling on a horde of corrupted ice beasts.
But as the morning sun filtered through the paper screens of our master suite, I seriously thought my husband was going to be the death of me.
I opened my eyes and instantly winced.
My lower back throbbed. My thighs felt like they had been entirely replaced by overcooked noodles, and there was a very distinct, very sensitive ache settling deep in my hips. Every single muscle in my body protested as I tried to shift under the massive mountain of snow-fox furs.
"Don't move."
The voice was a low, sleep-rough rumble that vibrated directly against my bare spine.
