The morning settled over the room like a layer of warm, liquid gold. Amara stirred, the friction of the high-thread-count sheets feeling strange and decadent against her skin, a sharp, jarring contrast to the grime she'd lived in just a lifetime ago. Or was it twelve hours? Time had become a soup. She felt a weight beside her, a steady, rhythmic presence that grounded her fluttering pulse.
When she opened her eyes, Darien was already there. He wasn't the distant, marble-carved titan of the boardroom. He was propped up on one elbow, his dark hair a chaotic mess and his silver-gray eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
"You're staring," she croaked, her voice still raspy from the screaming she'd done in that warehouse.
"I believe I've earned the right," Darien murmured. His voice was a low-frequency vibration that seemed to bypass her ears and go straight to her bones.
