The hallway was quiet, the only sound the flickering of the torches in their sconces. Derek walked toward the master bedroom, his boots making no sound on the thick carpet runner.
He reached the heavy oak door and raised his hand to knock, a habit of respect, but paused.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm, golden light spilling onto the floorboards.
He pushed it open silently.
Marissa was inside. She was standing by the large wardrobe, her back to him. The room was filled with open trunks and neat piles of clothing. She was folding one of his heavy wool tunics, her movements precise and careful, smoothing out every crease as if she were handling the finest silk.
Derek watched her for a moment. The sight of her, performing such a simple, domestic act for him, made his chest ache with a fierce, protective love. He crossed the room in three long, silent strides.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
