Sunlight poured through the villa's floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and insistent against Kane's closed eyelids.
The mattress beneath him felt expensive—silk sheets cool against his skin, memory foam cradling his body like a cloud.
Paradise.
Except Kane woke up furious.
His amber eyes snapped open, immediately seeking the familiar figure who should be perched at the bedside, radiating worry and overprotective intensity.
Empty.
The chair sat vacant. No coffee cup steaming on the nightstand. No Cyrus hovering like Kane was made of glass.
Kane shoved himself upright, ignoring the faint throb behind his temples.
Collapsed again. Again.
Right when he'd been seconds away from discovering what Cyrus sealed behind those wards—what secret was important enough to lock away with ancient draconic magic on an isolated island.
His tails lashed against the sheets, silver fur bristling.
Two fainting spells in as many days. Like a delicate Victorian maiden who couldn't handle excitement.
