The gentle, golden fingers of dawn filtered through the heavy sheer curtains of the master suite, painting the room in soft hues of amber and cream. For the first time in five agonizing years, I woke up without the crushing weight of panic squeezing my chest. The air didn't smell like the damp, moldy concrete of Boris Dame's warehouse, nor did it carry the terrifying, metallic tang of the harbor battlefield. It smelled of cedarwood, rain, and the deep, comforting warmth of the man whose arm was still clamped securely around my waist.
I shifted slightly, my movement restricted by the heavy, possessive weight of Asher's arm. He was still deeply asleep, his breathing slow and slightly shallow—a subconscious defense mechanism against the fractured ribs tightly bound beneath his white medical wraps. In the clear light of morning, the fierce, untouchable Sovereign of the Reed empire looked entirely human.
