DEVON
Apple juice.
It was crisp, sweet, and cold against the back of my throat. I took another sip, the condensation on the glass wetting my fingertips, and leaned back in the velvet armchair I'd pulled to the side of the bed.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of the central air and the soft, uneven breathing of the woman in the bed.
Irene.
She was still asleep. The sedative pinch I'd given her back at the engagement party—was it only twelve hours ago?—had been precise. I didn't use drugs. I didn't use magic. Just anatomy. But the stress of the night, the emotional toll of seeing me, and the wolfsbane I had pumping into the air had kept her under longer than usual.
I checked my watch. 10:03 AM.
We were making good time. In the real timeline, I hadn't even known what she looked like, yet... I had caught a glimpse of her during an entreaty and had gotten immediately obsessed.
