A single, blindingly bright ray of midday sunlight pierced through a tiny gap in the heavy blackout curtains of Room 121.
It hit Aria squarely in the left eye.
She groaned, a dry, raspy sound that scraped like sandpaper against her throat. She tried to turn her head away from the light, but her cheek was securely glued to something incredibly solid, warm, and bare.
It was Damien's chest.
Aria slowly forced her heavy eyelids open. The world was a blurry, over-exposed mess. They were still exactly where they had passed out the night before—a tangle of naked, exhausted limbs sprawled completely across the plush, thick fibers of the hotel living room rug.
A sharp throb hammered directly behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted like dry red wine, stale garlic, and profound regret.
"Ugh," Aria whimpered pitifully, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face deeper into the crook of Damien's neck to escape the light. "I am dying."
Her soft whimper acted like an instant alarm bell.
