The morning sunlight leaked into the room like an uninvited guest, spilling across the tangled mess that was now our bedroom. Clothes—mine, hers—were scattered everywhere, a trail of fabric leading from the bed to the door like some ridiculous breadcrumb path. The sheets were twisted, the pillows were on the floor, and honestly, if anyone from the household staff happened to walk in, they'd immediately know exactly what had happened here last night.
Not that I could forget.
I stretched, still feeling the ache in my muscles, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Morning, wife," I murmured, reaching for her.
Instead of the warm, sleepy Mio I expected, she was already sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to me, slipping into her robe without even glancing my way.
Uh-oh.
"You're up early," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
Silence.
That wasn't just "I'm tired" silence. That was "I'm plotting your slow demise" silence.
"Mio?" I called again, testing the waters.
