I sat at the edge of the bed, watching Anastasia's long, messy hair spill over the pillow like a river of midnight silk. Even in sleep, she radiated an unspoken power, a presence that made my instincts flare. I was a predator crouched quietly, every nerve taut, every sense alert to her subtle movements. She didn't know I was here—my mate, my prey, utterly unaware—but my pack instincts recognized every rhythm of her breathing, every slight rise of her chest.
Her lips, full and red, caught the dim light of the chandelier and made my pulse thrum faster. I leaned closer, my instincts whispering, claim her, protect her, feel her warmth. A clump of hair fell across her eyes, and I reached out with a careful hand to brush it aside. The moment my fingers grazed her skin, she murmured something in her sleep, soft and intoxicating. Then, unexpectedly, her small hands closed over mine.
"Stop messing around, Jared. Let your mommy sleep for a bit," she muttered.
