She woke in his bed.
The bath was a memory. The sheets were warm.
Dex was beside her. On his side, facing her, one arm draped across her waist, his breathing steady and deep. Asleep.
She watched him for a moment. The firelight caught the angles of his face, softening the jaw that spent its waking hours clenched, smoothing the brow that spent its waking hours calculating. Asleep, Dexmon Drakenfell looked younger. Less guarded.
She shifted closer. The movement was small, instinctive, the gravitational pull of a woman towards the warmth that made her feel safe. Her thigh brushed his. Her hip pressed against his hand.
His eyes opened.
The transition from sleep to awareness was instant, zero to Alpha in under a second, his pupils adjusting to the low light and finding her face with the precision of a predator whose senses never fully powered down.
Then the gold softened. He saw her. Just her. And the predator became the man who held her in bathwater and kissed her hiccups.
