Sunlight had never felt so offensive.
It filtered through the cabin's gauzy curtains, brushing across Malvoria's face like a rude messenger sent to remind her of the world waiting outside.
She didn't open her eyes. She didn't need to. She could feel the shift in warmth, hear the birdsong returning in lazy patterns, taste the last notes of magic still clinging to the air like perfume after a dream.
But mostly, she felt her.
Elysia lay curled in the crook of her arm, one bare leg slung over Malvoria's thigh, a hand pressed lightly against her chest.
Her hair was a silver tangle against the pillow, streaks of it trailing across Malvoria's collarbone. Her breathing was steady, deep, the rhythm of someone still wrapped in sleep.
It was a crime, really.
A crime against the very foundations of duty, responsibility, and every cursed obligation that came with the title of Demon Queen.
Because Malvoria had no intention of moving.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
