Warmth clung to the sheets and to the curve of soft limbs tangled around Lyan's body. He blinked groggily, sunlight stabbing past the crimson curtains in narrow lances that painted molten stripes across bare shoulders, tousled hair, and the end-board strewn with last night's discarded sashes. Somewhere close—far too close—Raine's silver hair tickled his nose while Josephine's unruly curls draped his collarbone like ivy. His chin rested on a decidedly soft pillow that turned out to be Belle's thigh. A lazy breath escaped him, fogging over the mess of silky locks and perfumed skin.
For half a heartbeat he tried to remember where one woman ended and another began. Belle's perfume—cinnamon and cream—blurred into Raine's cool rain-moss, which bled into Josephine's sweet wine and cherry blossom. Under all of that, the faint cedar scent of fresh-laundered sheets tried—and failed—to keep order.
