The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of amber and rose. The estate stretched below them, gardens bursting with flowers that seemed to wake with the sun.
A gentle breeze carried their fragrance upward, mingling with the crisp air of early morning.
Thoren sat on the wide balcony, his back against the stone railing, one leg bent and the other stretched out.
His gaze was fixed on the horizon, but his attention was elsewhere. It was the warmth pressed against his chest, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the weight of her head resting over his heart.
Fidelia wore nothing but his shirt. The fabric hung loose on her frame, slipping off one shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
Her hair was loose and wild, a cascade of tangled strands that caught the morning light and turned it into spun gold.
She looked utterly disheveled, utterly content, and utterly beautiful.
She stirred against him, nuzzling closer, and let out a soft, satisfied sigh.
