(Isobel's Point Of View)
I woke up wrapped in Etienne's arms, the morning light soft through his bedroom curtains.
His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek. I'd never felt safer. Or more terrified. The cotton of his shirt smelled faintly of cedar and yesterday's smoke; the sheet was cool against my calves. Last night had changed everything — the way he'd held me, the way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered, the absurd, echoing sound of Marie's Spanish exclamation that would probably follow me around the house for a week.
I smiled despite myself.
Etienne stirred, his hand sliding up my back. "You're thinking too loud."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." He kissed the top of my head. "I like knowing you're here."
I tilted my face up to look at him. His hair was messy, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. "Good morning."
"Good morning." He traced a finger along my jaw. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in months."
"Same."
