An hour later, Dean finally felt well enough to call Sylvia.
The improvement had less to do with medication than with Arion abandoning any attempt to keep his pheromones restrained. Vetiver still lingered through the private sitting room in a warm, steady layer, blending with the faint scent of winter air slipping around the tall windows and the tea cooling untouched on the low table.
Dean had managed breakfast while tucked against Arion's side. More importantly, breakfast had stayed where it belonged.
That qualified as progress.
Now he occupied the corner of the long charcoal sofa beneath one of the ridiculous soft blankets Rina had brought after learning about the pregnancy. His cream knit shirt hung loosely over his waist, pale hair falling around his face because he had abandoned any effort to make it respectable after showering.
