The sun was already high when Damon opened his eyes again.
Light filtered through the curtains, stronger now, marking the floor with golden streaks. The room was silent except for the distant sounds of the waking mansion—footsteps, voices, the creak of gates opening. Aria slept curled up in the blankets, her face serene and her hair strewn in disarray. He lay there for a few moments, watching her, until the weight of duty pulled him back to reality.
Carefully, he removed her arm from his chest. Aria mumbled something incoherent, rolled over, and continued sleeping. Damon stood, his bare feet touching the cold floor. The temperature woke him completely.
The full-length mirror next to the window reflected a different man from the one who had left for Paraphal—his hair longer, his eyes lined with deep shadows, and an expression that blended weariness and determination. There were new scars on his body, thin, pale lines that told stories no one else would need to hear.
