The morning sun filtered softly through the tall windows of Draven's estate, brushing the edges of Selara's silken hair with pale light. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the scented candles the maids had left burning through the night, though the scent mingled with the lingering warmth of Draven's presence. She remained tucked beneath the soft, heavy blankets, her body still pressed to the imprint of where he had lain beside her.
Draven was awake before the first rays of sun reached his room, his gold eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He had not moved, had not even breathed loudly, not wanting to disturb her fragile illusion of sleep. To anyone watching, he could have seemed indifferent, unmoved, but inside, every heartbeat thumped with restrained urgency. Selara, so strong in the field, so untouchable in front of the wolves and the battles, now slept with the soft vulnerability that he knew few, if any, would ever see.
