"Mmmm," Delia murmured, snuggling closer to the warmth beside her as she held onto her pillow tightly. But this pillow wasn't the same fluffy, soft one she knew from her own bed. This one was firm, and warm, and it seemed to be breathing.
She opened her eyes slowly, her vision blurry at first before the soft morning light of the room came into focus. She looked around. The dark, masculine furniture, the heavy velvet curtains, the tall, imposing bookshelves…
"This isn't my room," she said, her voice a low, sleepy whisper.
A deep, amused voice from right above her replied, "Of course it isn't."
She looked up and saw Eric looking down at her, a fond, gentle smile on his face. "It's mine," he finished.
He was sitting up in the bed, his back propped against the headboard. Stacks of his work ledgers were piled beside him. Some were on the bedside table, while others were scattered on the floor. He was reviewing what she thought must be the last one, a quill in his hand.
