By the third hour of the morning, the manic, desperate passion that had consumed the royal bedchamber had finally receded into a heavy, warm exhaustion. The air, which had been thick with the scent of raw timber wolf baseline and the blinding heat of a sovereign solar matrix, had grown still.
Kaelen lay flat on his back amid the rumpled furs of the massive platform bed, his chest heaving in long, slow cycles. His massive left arm was securely and possessively wrapped around Gwen's waist, anchoring her bare, slender flank tight against his heavy ribs, while his large right hand—the palm completely healed from the earlier solar spark—rested protectively over the small, subtle curve of her stomach. Gwen's dark, tangled hair was spread across his shoulder, her head buried deeply within the crook of his warm neck. Her breathing was slow, deep, and regular, her inner sun finally operating in a remarkably stable, quiet harmony with his heavy lunar baseline.
