Morning came.
Yeara's eyes fluttered open. She stared at the ceiling, an unfamiliar smile tugging at her lips. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, and suddenly the memories of last night came rushing back like an ocean crashing over her. Her eyes went wide, and she sat up sharply.
Her gaze dropped to the oversized shirt she was wearing. He must have changed her into his shirt when she fell asleep—it smelled like him, so good. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She shifted her eyes to the side and froze.
Zalthor was still asleep, bare-chested, facing her.
Her stomach twisted as she noticed the marks on his chest, the faint bruises along his neck, the hickeys she had left, and the scratches on the muscles of his arm. Her teeth found her lower lip as she bit it, caught between shock and desire.
She couldn't believe it—she had been the cause.
