The sun filtered gently through the gauzy white curtains, a soft, ethereal light that bathed the room in a golden sheen. It kissed the rumpled sheets of the bed and the three bodies intimately tangled within them.
The Packhouse, sprawling and usually bustling, was unusually quiet that morning, still lulled in the deep embrace of sleep. But inside the room, tucked away in the east wing, a different kind of warmth bloomed—a steady, comforting fire that radiated from the very core of their being.
Lyra stirred first, her awakening a slow, languid ascent from the depths of sleep. Her nose was pressed into the hard, reassuring wall of muscle that was Xander’s chest, the scent of him—something wild and vibrant—filling her senses. Her legs were intimately tangled with Kyson’s, his warmth seepin
