The first thing Elijah felt was the sting in his lips. The second was the dull, relentless pounding at his temples.
His lashes fluttered open.
The ceiling above was unfamiliar, yet oddly familiar.
Golden sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling window, crowning the slouched figure on the two-seater in a warm halo.
The light caught the edges of his red hair, and for a strange moment, it looked as if they were on fire.
Yet they looked soft.
Soft snores filled the room as Alexei had his head resting against the backrest, his mouth slightly parted.
So careless. As if nothing in the world could touch him.
Elijah forced himself to sit up. His finger subconsciously went to his stinging lips.
There was a wound, already scabbed, but still as much present as the person who had given it to him.
He fumbled around the bedside table, picking up his phone and checking the time.
