For Amara, waking up felt like surfacing from miles of dark water. Her shoulder was no longer a screaming source of agony, but a dull, rhythmic throb, and her mind felt clear for the first time since the rain-soaked disaster at the park.
She shifted under the heavy charcoal-grey silk sheets, her movements tentative. Beside the bed, the tall floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a world that looked deceptively peaceful.
A soft sound, the scrape of wood against stone, drew her attention.
Darien was sitting in a high-backed velvet chair by the fireplace, which he had clearly been tending all night. He wasn't dressed for work. He wore a simple, dark cashmere sweater and loose trousers, his feet bare against the rug.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of its usual sharp edge of command. He stood up and moved toward the bed, his presence filling the space with a familiar, grounding warmth.
