The room smelled of salt and sex.
The ocean breeze came through the tall windows, carrying the brine of the Endless Sea, and it mixed with the musk that hung in the air — the thick, heavy, animal scent of a dragon's heat and a man's seed and a woman's sweat. The curtains billowed. The silk — torn from the bed, draped over a chair, hanging from a post — moved with the wind.
Seraphina was awake.
Her sea-green eyes were open. Her massive body — the scaled, powerful, ancient body — was propped against the headboard. The bed — the imperial bed, the one that had been broken and repaired twice — creaked beneath her weight. Her hair — silver-blue, long, the strands tangled and matted with dried fluid — fell over her shoulders. Over her breasts. The massive mounds — bare, heavy, the nipples dark and stiff from the cold air — rose and fell with her breathing.
Raven was on her.
