The morning after our candlelit dinner, the packhouse felt quieter than usual. My muscles ached in protest, a dull reminder of the training the day before, but my mind still buzzed from the night’s events. The memory of the woman—her cold, calculated gaze—kept slipping into my thoughts.
Asher appeared beside me with a cup of steaming coffee, his wolfish grin soft this time. “Morning, sleepyhead.” He said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log.” I muttered, stretching carefully. “Though someone keeps showing up in my dreams.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Her?”
I nodded, reluctantly. “Yeah. The woman from last night. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s planning something.”
Asher’s jaw tightened. “Probably. But she won’t succeed. Not as long as we’re together. Not as long as you trust me.”
