The morning light filtered through the cedar slats of the cottage, no longer a pale grey but a sharp, intrusive gold. It danced across the dust motes and the faded floral patterns of the rug, but it stopped at the edge of the shadow cast by Baphomet's wings. Within that dark, velvet tent, time had slowed to the rhythm of a shared breath.
Hailey stirred, her skin finally warm, the deep-seated chill of the Atlantic a receding memory. She felt the heavy, muscular rise and fall of Baphomet's chest beneath her cheek, the coarse softness of his fur a grounding reality.
"You're thinking again," Baphomet's voice rumbled, his throat vibrating against her temple. He didn't open his eyes, but his hand—massive and warm—slid up her back to cup the nape of her neck. His claws were mere nubs of obsidian, tucked away so as not to graze her. "The storm in your head is louder than the one on the beach."
