The morning sun didn't wake them up.
A polite, persistent rattling did.
Rattle. Thud. Rattle. Thud.
Aria groaned, burying her face in the pillow. She felt heavy, warm, and delightfully sore. She was tangled in the sheets on the "high ground" of the broken bed, with Damien's arm draped over her waist like a seatbelt.
"Damien," she mumbled, nudging his ribs. "Make it stop."
"Ignore it," Damien grumbled, tightening his grip.
Rattle. THUD.
"Mr. Sinclair," Alfred's muffled voice came from the hallway, sounding strained. "I believe the door is... stuck."
Aria's eyes snapped open. Memory flooded back.
The dresser.
Damien had barricaded the door with a three-hundred-pound antique.
Aria looked at the door. The handle was turning frantically, but the massive oak dresser wasn't budging an inch.
She started to laugh. She couldn't help it. She buried her face in the mattress to muffle the sound, her shoulders shaking.
