Chapter 7

The first thing I noticed was the weight of his arm, heavy and warm across my ribs, anchoring me to the mattress. The air in the room was thick, smelling of stale perfume, sweat, and the lingering, intoxicating scent of him—sandalwood and musk, mixed with the metallic tang of the night market’s food stalls. My head throbbed in a slow, rhythmic counterpoint to my heartbeat, a dull ache behind my eyes that spoke of too much wine, too much laughter, and too much of him. I tried to move, to stretch the stiffness from my limbs, but his grip tightened instantly. He didn’t open his eyes, but a low hum vibrated in his chest against my back, a possessive rumble that sent a shiver straight down my spine. I was still on top of him, or perhaps he had pulled me close in his sleep, our bodies locked in a tangle of sheets and tangled limbs. My hair was a curtain around us, a private world of its own, isolating us from the rest of the vintage fair’s chaotic energy. "Morning, baby girl," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, gravelly and deep. It was a sound that seemed to