Kaelen woke to warmth.
Not the warmth of the fire or the warmth of the bond, but something softer, more persistent. A hand on his head, fingers carding through his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. The touch was soft, almost absent minded, the kind of touch that came from someone who had spent a lifetime soothing restless creatures.
He struggled to open his eyes.
The king was on his bed.
Alistair sat cross legged on the padded silk, his back against a pile of pillows, his dark hair loose around his shoulders. He wore simple clothes: a linen shirt, loose trousers, no shoes. His feet were bare, the soles pale against the deep gold of the bedding. In his lap, curled like a cat, was Sprite. The beast's ember eyes were half closed, its small body vibrating with a purr that showed satisfaction. The beast's tail curled around his wrist.
