ULRIC KNIGHT
Aelia sleeps curled into me, small and warm and devastatingly mine. Morning spills through the curtains in soft gold, laying a thin ribbon of light across her bare shoulder where the blanket has slipped. I lie on my side with one arm banded around her waist and my palm spread over the steady beat of her heart. I don't move. I don't want to disturb the peace I've been starving for.
She breathes in slow, even tides. Each exhale ghosts over my chest, warm and faintly sweet. Her hair is a dark spill across my pillow, wild from the night—snagged on my stubble in a few places like it refuses to leave me, even in sleep. Her lips are parted, soft, the lower one a little swollen from kisses that still burn through my ribs when I think about them. She looks fragile like this; she isn't. She's iron wrapped in velvet, the only softness my wolf kneels to.
