The morning light spilled through the high windows in golden streaks, dusting over marble floors and soaking into silk sheets that still held the warmth of their entangled bodies. The air smelled faintly of lavender oils and the remnants of night’s passion.
Valen stirred first, but he didn’t move.
He simply watched her.
Seraphine lay with one arm draped across his chest, her lips slightly parted in sleep, her lashes fanned against her cheeks. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow and his arm, a wild halo around a face that no longer bore the weight of war.The bruises on her collarbone were still faintly blooming—gifts of his mouth, his hunger. Her skin was a canvas painted by the night they’d lost themselves in.
He brushed his fingers lightly over her shoulder, tracing the curve down
