Chris woke to an empty expanse of mattress.
The heat was still there, the sheets warm, the air faintly scented with dark silk and wine, but the arm was gone. He blinked up at the carved ceiling, momentarily disoriented. For a second he thought he'd dreamed it: the wedding, the car, the king in silk pajamas. Then the size of the bed registered. He'd never been in one so big; it felt like a small country with pillows.
And that, he thought grimly, said something. He wasn't a street urchin. He had a perfectly good two-bedroom apartment back in the city, paid off in full, and he'd been content with it. This wasn't his world. This was absurd.
He rolled onto his side. The indentation where Dax had been was still visible, the covers slightly rumpled, with faint traces of his scent clinging to the cotton. Chris pushed himself upright slowly, palms pressed to the sheet. Pale morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, picking out gleams in the marble floor.
