We lay on the bearskin rug for a long time, tangled in a lazy embrace, the firelight painting our skin in hues of orange and gold. The silence was a comfortable blanket, woven with the soft crackle of the dying embers and the steady, reassuring beat of Damien’s heart under my ear. The war was over. The victory was won. And in the quiet aftermath, there was only peace.
After a while, Damien stirred, his muscles flexing under me. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head. “Don’t move,” he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy rumble.
He carefully disentangled himself and rose, moving with a fluid grace that was mesmerizing to watch. He walked to the ornate, locked cabinet behind the bar and returned with a dusty, unlabeled bottle and two small, crystal glasses.
