Morning seeped into the room with slow, merciless tenderness. Light filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting thin lines across the bed, the floor, the wall—as if someone were quietly trying to hide the remnants of the night.
Lennox was already awake. His eyes scanned the ceiling, but he wasn't really seeing anything.
Beneath the blanket, Sloane's body was curled against his. Her breathing was steady, her face calm. Near her hairline, a small purple bruise bloomed on her forehead—the mark he had left on her.
Not on purpose.
But that didn't matter.
The memory of the night still pulsed in Lennox's gut. The nightmare, his father's voice, the old walls he couldn't break through. And that movement—it had come from instinct, not awareness, but it was enough to send Sloane tumbling f
