The morning sun bathed the royal chambers in hues of rose gold and drowsy warmth, filtering gently through the gauzy curtains that fluttered with the breeze.
The scent of burning lavender wood lingered in the air — faintly floral, faintly dangerous. Just like the woman Alaric loved.
Salviana stirred beneath the covers first, her long red hair tangled across the pillow like threads of living flame.
She blinked slowly, only to find Alaric already propped against the headboard, a loose linen robe around his shoulders, his ink-black eyes fixed on her — intense, amused, devouring.
"You stare at me like I'm your first sin," she murmured sleepily, voice rough with sleep.
"Because you are," he replied, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. His voice was low, gravelly, and entirely too charming for someone who didn't sleep at all. "And my favorite."
