Salvar woke to the weight of being trapped and the pale afternoon sun filtering through the floating curtains. His head throbbed from oversleeping, a dull and insistent ache behind his eyes. He tried to inhale deeply, but instead of fresh air, he got a lungful of pheromones. His own, yes, but tangled with someone else's.
He rubbed his eyes and forced them open, staring blankly at the wall. This was definitely not his room. The walls were the wrong color, the curtains too heavy, the sheets too soft. But he knew whose room this was. The pheromones gave it away before his eyes did, and even if they hadn't, the arm draped heavily over his ribs would have been clue enough.
The question was not where he was. The question was how he got here, and why Silas Malgrave was wrapped around him like a particularly possessive octopus.
