Amber—once the dutiful daughter of the lord, once the girl who bowed her head before every altar without a whisper of doubt—opened her eyes slowly, as though waking in a world she no longer recognized.
Her lashes fluttered once.
Twice.
A third time, heavier, as the remnants of last night clung to her like warm fog.
Then her gaze landed on him.
Aiden lay beside her, still asleep.
No glamour.
No disguise.
No mask carved from divinity or shadows.
Just Aiden.
His natural white hair spilled over the pillow like threads of moonlight, the strands faintly glowing where the dawn brushed them. His golden eyes—closed now—rested under soft, almost fragile lids.
Without his usual sharp expression, without the air of danger he carried like a second skin, he looked… human. Almost boyish.
Amber's breath caught.
She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling her heart thrum fast—too fast—like a bird beating against the bars of its cage.
He really is… beautiful.
