Sunlight didn't just pour through the half-open curtains, it slithered, thick and golden, like warm oil sliding over every inch of the master bedroom.
It caught on the dust motes drifting lazy in the air, turned the tangled white sheets into rivers of light and shadow, and painted Devon's bare skin in slow, molten strokes.
The room smelled like a battlefield after the war: sex and sweat and the sharp, sweet bite of Amara's jasmine perfume now twisted with the deeper, darker musk of bodies pushed past exhaustion.
The king bed groaned under their weight, springs still warm from the night's violence, headboard loose and scarred from hours of slamming, one leg of the nightstand tipped crooked, lamp shade hanging like a drunk soldier.
A single silk tie—Julian's, probably—lay knotted on the floor, forgotten. A high heel dangled off the edge of the dresser, strap broken.
The mirror across the room reflected it all: chaos, conquest, them.
