Like a man struck by a sudden winter gale, Alpheo tore himself from the mattress. His feet hit the cold stone floor with a dull sound akin to a mace falling on a wall, and whatever lingering sweetness they had shared in the dark fluttered away like light snow before a spring wind.
With only a strip of white silk hitched around his waist to cover his nakedness, he strode toward the heavy oak door. Before throwing the bolt, he paused, turning back to ensure Jasmine was hidden from view.
She gave a sharp nod, pulling the heavy wool blanket tight against her chest. Given a few moments, she might have gathered her shifts and made herself look a queen, but a red ribbon allowed no time for vanity.
It was the color of blood after all.
