Elara
Warm rays of sunlight caress my face, stirring me from the depths of sleep. I sigh and nuzzle deeper into the plush pillows as the remnants of an impossible dream cling to the edges of my consciousness. My eyelids flutter open, and for a blissful moment, everything is bathed in a golden haze.
Beside me lies a figure so striking that I wonder if I’m still dreaming. His dark hair falls in tousled waves across his forehead, framing a strong, angular face. High cheekbones and a perfectly sculpted jawline give him an almost regal appearance. Long, dark lashes rest against his sun-kissed skin, and his lips, full and inviting, part ever so slightly with each slow, steady breath.
The early morning light plays over the contours of his naked torso, highlighting every dip and curve of well-defined muscle. One powerful arm is bent above his head, the other resting lightly against the rumpled sheets. Even asleep, he exudes confidence, a quiet strength that draws me in.
My thoughts are slow and honey-sweet, and for a heartbeat, I’m captivated, lost in admiration. The world feels distant, muffled, wrapped in cotton.
Then reality crashes through me like thunder.
With a startled gasp, I bolt upright and scramble out of the bed. Heart pounding, I press my back against the wall. I flatten my palms against the solid stone as though it might anchor me and dissolve this dream once and for all.
But nothing changes. The room remains stubbornly real—the copper tub still filled with water, the remnants of food and ale strewn across the wooden table, the massive bed with its disheveled sheets and the unmistakable imprint of where I slept. And most undeniably, the imposing man still sleeping beside that spot, utterly unbothered by my panic.
Raking my hands through my tangled hair, I struggle to make sense of the chaos swirling in my mind. “What in the actual fuck is going on?”
The question is directed at the universe, but without opening his eyes, the sleeping giant answers instead. “I imagine you are realizing that this is not, in fact, a dream,” he says, his morning voice more deliciously gruff than it has any right to be. “But please do so silently. Unlike you, I was awake rather late.”
“The last thing I’m worried about right now is your beauty sleep! And why are you even in the damn bed? Were you lying when you told me I could have it, or did you conveniently forget?”
His eyes crack open at that, revealing a sharp gaze the color of storm clouds. “I do not lie, and once spoken, I never forget my words. I gave you the option of the bedor the floor. I never said I would not be in the bed as well. You simply assumed that to be the case.”
“A lie by omission is still a lie,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Hold your outrage, woman. Your virtue is still intact. I did not touch you.”
He sits up with a groan and drags his hands down his stubbled jaw before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The movement presents me with a view of his back—taut, muscular, and frustratingly perfect. Each muscle shifts beneath his bronzed skin, the early light casting subtle shadows that accentuate every contour.
Stop lusting after the man, Elara!
I huff, cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “That’s not the point. You should have told me you’d be sleeping there too.”
He glances over his shoulder, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Would it have made a difference? You slept soundly enough.”
I open my mouth to retort, but the truth is I hadn’t even noticed him climb into the bed. How could I have been so oblivious?
“I’ll be more considerate of your delicate sensibilities in the future,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“As you wish.” He stands, his broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, and I’m mostly relieved to see he’s wearing pants and partially irritated that I’m not entirely relieved. He stretches his arms above his head, sending a ripple through every stiff muscle. I’m transfixed by the sight of his tawny skin and the muscular ridges of his powerful form. I want to kiss the flat, browndiscs of his pecs and run my nails through the dusting of black hair that trails through the valley between his abs, swirls around his navel, then disappears beneath the waistband of the pants hanging low on his hips.
Jesus, it’s been too long since I’ve had sex.
Like a rabbit clocking the movements of a panther, I watch as he retrieves his shirt from the end of the bed, then sidles over to me with more grace than a man of his size should possess. He’s close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet the steel gray of his penetrating gaze.
“However,” he croons, his deep baritone voice making heat pool low in my belly. “I am not the one who brazenly took in my naked form last night. Perhaps that is why you are upset.”
My face flames as the memories flood back, the way I shamelessly admired every inch of him when I thought this was all just a vivid dream. Every. Single. Inch.
Oh God, I ogled him like a piece of meat. I practically started drooling.
I give him a saccharine grin. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t that impressive. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
He chuckles softly, one side of his mouth curling into a sly smile. “If you say so, naughty nymph.”
The unexpected pet name sends a jolt through me, equal parts annoyance and something else I refuse to acknowledge.
