The room was too quiet for Sasha's racing thoughts.
The moon hung low over the woods beyond the frost-laced window. Its pale light filtered through the tall glass panes, casting silver on the stone floors, the fur-lined rug, and the sleeping figure in his bed.
Aylin lay curled in front of the window, her breath slow and even, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other resting above the blanket that had slipped slightly from her shoulders. Her skin was bare there, smooth and warm, and too appealing to ignore.
He had kept his distance for so long.
He had forced himself to be patient ever since her wounds began to fade into soft shadows, her strength had returned, and she had started smiling again—not just surviving. Reverent. Respectful. Sleeping beside her had become a quiet torment, and he'd grown used to pretending.
Pretending her soft sighs at night didn't affect him.
Pretending the heat of her body beside him didn't drive him mad.
