The sharp knock of the maid against the door was the final blow to the silence. Beside me, Waverly groaned, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she pulled the blanket higher.
I sat up, the springs of the bed groaning. The reality of the morning—the splintered wood, the mark on her neck, the blood on my knuckles—hit me all at once.
"She looks beautiful. Like a queen rising from the ashes we made last night. Look at the mark, Kaeren. It's perfect." Vane sighed contentedly, voice uncharacteristically soft.
"It's a complication," I snapped back internally, though my heart was doing a traitorous thud in my chest. "Everything is moving too fast. Yesterday she was an interviewee; today she's a permanent part of my soul. I don't know how to handle this."
"Good morning," she whispered, her voice raspy and sleep-heavy. She leaned in, her eyes soft and searching, tilting her head for a sweet, lingering morning kiss.
