Knock…
knock…
knock.
The first thing Philip registered was the sound. A series of sharp, insistent knocks on his bedroom door, a sound as aggressive as a blacksmith's hammer inside his head and unwelcome as a bucket of cold water. The second thing was the light. A brilliant, unforgiving spear of sunlight had pierced through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, striking his face with brutal intensity.
He groaned, a low, guttural sound of protest, and rolled over, burying his face in the soft pillows. His head was pounding with a dull, rhythmic ache that promised a miserable day. His dark hair was a tangled mess, and his mouth felt as dry as desert sand. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, looking around the luxurious room with a sense of profound unfamiliarity, as if he were a stranger in his own home.
