(Third Person).
A few hours after dinner, Draven lay on his side, his body pressed against Meredith's back, his arm wrapped over her, palm cupping the fullness of her breast as though it was simply where his hand belonged.
His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, his presence grounding.
Meredith stared into the dim shadows across the room. Though her body was relaxed, her mind refused to rest.
Tension coiled in her belly — not from Draven's touch, but from the unseen threat creeping closer with each second.
Still, she couldn't help but wonder…
"Are you asleep?" she asked softly.
A low breath warmed the curve of her neck. Then, without warning, his fingers gently squeezed her breast.
"I'm trying," he murmured in a gravel-drenched voice, "but your scent is driving me mad."
A small smile tugged at her lips, despite herself.
That one line — spoken with the kind of husky restraint only Draven possessed — was enough to ease the tight knot of nerves forming in her chest.
