Serenity's POV
The sunlight wakes me before the sound does. It’s soft, diffused through gauzy curtains that have seen better decades, but it’s enough to make my head throb with a dull, rhythmic ache. For a heartbeat, a single blissful second of sensory amnesia, I don’t recognize the ceiling. The texture isn't the pristine, crown-molded plaster of the Dravenhart guest wing. The scent isn't the antiseptic lavender of my "official" apartment. It’s warm, edged with cedarwood, old paper, and the faint, bitter promise of coffee.
Then it hits me like a physical blow—the memory of the night before.
The kiss. The heat. The way I came here like someone possessed, stripping off the skin of the spy to find the raw, bleeding nerves of the woman beneath. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my
