ROMAN
There's something deeply intimate about simply holding someone. More intimate, perhaps, than sex.
I lay beside Vanessa, one arm curled protectively around her slender form, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept. The faint blue light from the hotel alarm clock cast shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones, the tiny scar above her eyebrow.
That scar. The physical proof of her bravery as a child when she'd saved my life. A memory stolen from both of us.
I traced it lightly with my thumb, careful not to wake her. For years, I'd been haunted by fractured images of that day—a small figure pulling me to safety, a pair of terrified eyes. I'd attributed those memories to Seraphina, building my loyalty to her on a foundation of sand.
All along, it had been Vanessa. My fated mate. My salvation then and now.
