The door frame seemed like an invisible line between two worlds.
Behind them, the interior of the mansion—soft shadows, cool air, the comfortable silence that accompanied creatures of the night.
Ahead, only four steps.
Four.
And then, the sun.
The morning light flooded the courtyard with an almost aggressive golden glow. It wasn't the timid sunset nor the filtered light of dusk. It was a full morning. Clear. Honest.
Damon stood exactly where the shadow ended.
Arms crossed.
Gaze fixed on the illuminated ground.
"So," he began, in an extremely calculated tone, "are you absolutely sure I won't spontaneously combust?"
Elizabeth stood beside him, too calm for someone about to witness her own husband's possible fire.
She tilted her head, amused.
"Quite sure."
"'Quite a lot' isn't the word I like to hear when the subject is catching fire."
She laughed.
She really laughed.
"Damon."
