Marking venom healed, which was useful. It knocked her out every damn time, which was a minor inconvenience. But it also stole hours from her memory, and that part she never got used to.
She woke up in Dex's arms with no idea how she got there, standard, and her mind in a fog.
She turned her head.
Dex was dead asleep. His arm was locked across her waist, his face pressed into the back of her shoulder, breathing the deep, heavy rhythm of a man who had been running on adrenaline for hours and had crashed the moment his body decided it was safe to stop. He looked younger when he slept, the sharp edges of him softened into something closer to the boy he must have been before crowns and wars made him into this.
She shifted. One small movement, adjusting her weight, barely a sound.
His eyes opened.
