The first gray light of the northern dawn filtered through the heavy, frost-rimmed windows of our bedchamber, cutting through the amber dimness left by the dying embers of the fireplace. The air inside the room was thick, heavy with the scent of pine, winter rain, and the intoxicating, sweet aroma of fresh maternal milk and raw, unadulterated arousal.
Six hand-carved pine cribs sat in a perfect, quiet row at the far end of the room, the soft, rhythmic breathing of our sleeping children providing a steady hum against the quiet of the morning. But on the massive canopy bed, there was no peace.
There was only a slow, suffocating burn.
I woke with a soft, fractured gasp, my back arching instinctively against the silk sheets as a wave of intense, throbbing heat rolled across my chest.
The milk fever hadn't completely broken.
