After pouring myself a glass of scotch, I sip it slowly as I move to the balcony.
The sun will be up in less than four hours. I’ll probably sleep for half that, if I’m lucky.
Dons don’t sleep. Once upon a time, I craved that—the prospect of sleeping until whenever the hell Iwanted. Of dreaming.
But when the dreams turned black and twisted seven years ago, I stopped craving sleep.
I don’t mind the insomnia anymore.
The balcony has a fantastic view, but I can’t concentrate on anything right now. Not even the scotchseems to help.
I down it anyway and head back into the bedroom.
I stare at the made bed, but I’m still twitchy with unspent energy. Which means I have some unfinishedbusiness I need to sort out first.
So with a pained sigh, I leave my room and head down to the wine cellar.
