I woke to sunlight and the weight of an arm across my waist.
For a second, I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Because if I did, I might realize this was a dream and I'd wake up alone on the thin cot in my old room, with cold stone under my back and the echo of four years of silence in my ears.
But Draven was warm against me. Real. Solid. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths against my back, and his face was buried in my hair like he'd spent the night trying to memorize the scent of me. His arm was locked around my waist, heavy and possessive, like he was afraid I'd vanish if he loosened his grip even a fraction.
I wasn't going anywhere.
The thought hit me and didn't let go. It settled in my chest, warm and terrifying and true. I'm not running anymore.
Four years. Four years of
