Chapter 7

The light in the loft was different than the light in the city outside. It was heavy, filtered through the high, dust-moted windows of the industrial space, casting long, amber rectangles across the concrete floor. I blinked, my eyelids sticky with sleep, and for a first disorienting second, I forgot where I was. Then the smell hit me—turpentine, linseed oil, and the distinct, musky scent of his sweat and skin. That was the anchor. That was him. I shifted, a low groan escaping my throat, and felt the solid wall of his chest against my back. His arm was a heavy, warm weight draped over my waist, his hand resting possessively just above my hip bone. I turned my head on the pillow—actually, it was just a crumpled canvas drop cloth he’d folded into a makeshift pillow—and looked up at him. He was already awake, or at least, he was watching me. His eyes, that piercing, intelligent blue, were half-lidded with sleep but clear with affection. He hadn’t moved since I stirred. "Good morning, baby girl," he murmured, his voice a rough gravel that vibrated against my spine. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder, right where the strap of