Phei pushed open the bedroom door—quiet, careful, the faint scent of cedar and rain from his sheets already wrapping around him like home.
And there she was.
Maya Scarlett lay in the center of his bed, propped on one elbow, facing the door exactly as though she'd arranged herself in that precise position hours ago and practiced it many times to perfection, waiting for the exact second he would walk through.
Her silver hair spilled across the dark pillow like moonlight on water, strands catching the low bedside lamp and shimmering soft silver-gold.
Her skin glowed luminous under the warm light of the room and the moon light spilling in through the open window—porcelain-pale, flawless, almost translucent across the delicate hollows of her collarbones, the gentle swell of her small, high breasts.
She wore a delicate lace robe—thin, pale ivory, spun so fine it looked like mist clinging to her body.
