CHAPTER SEVEN
The first thing Amara felt was warmth.
Not sunlight—this came from skin, from breath, from the steady rise and fall of the chest pressed against her back.
For a few seconds she drifted, caught between sleep and memory, until the night before came rushing back—his hands, his voice, the sound of her own breathing breaking in the dark.
Her pulse stumbled.
She opened her eyes and stared at the wall.
Jace’s arm rested around her waist; his face was buried in her hair, his breath soft against her neck. The morning light filtered through the curtains, drawing faint silver lines across the tangled sheets.
For a long while she lay still. The air smelled of him, faintly warm and sharp, his cologne caught on her skin.
Jace stirred. His hand moved slightly on her waist.
“Morning
