Alaric followed me toward our tent. Quiet steps. Heavy air. The moon glowed silver above us. When we reached the flap, I paused.
“I’m not sharing a blanket,” I said flatly.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“But you will end up on my side.”
He smirked. “That’s your assumption.”
“I’ve seen you sleep. You cling.”
He held open the flap, lowering his voice like temptation dipped in velvet. “Maybe I cling to warmth.”
I stepped in.
He followed.
And the night… was far from cold.
The tent was warm—too warm.
Alaric was already on one side, lounging like he paid rent in charm and dark magic, stripped to a loose tunic and black trousers. The lantern flickered between us, casting golden shadows over his sharp jaw, tousled midnight hair, and arms that looked like they were sculpted by sin.
I plopped ont
