Dean awoke feeling warm, heavy, and slightly offended from being cared for without his consent.
For a second he didn't know where he was. The ceiling was too high. The light was too soft. The air smelled like expensive wood and clean linen with faint pheromones underneath it. The pheromones, restrained and familiar now, threaded through the room like a quiet claim.
Then he shifted, and the truth arranged itself around him.
He was on Arion's sofa, wrapped in a robe that looked like it belonged to an imperial chapel rather than a living room. His damp clothes were gone. His hair was dry. His stomach wasn't empty anymore, which meant at some point he'd eaten something warm while his brain had been too exhausted to keep protesting.
And Arion…
Dean's eyes slid sideways.
