AVA MAXWELL’S POV The morning sun filtered through the heavy, cream-colored silk drapes of the master bedroom, casting a soft, golden haze over the room. I floated in that delicious, heavy space between sleep and wakefulness, my body warm, cocooned in the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. The air in the room was cool, conditioned to perfection, but the distinct, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and musk—his scent—lingered on the pillow beside me, grounding me before I even opened my eyes. I reached out instinctively, my hand seeking the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart that had become my favorite lullaby. But my fingers met only cool, empty linen. My eyes fluttered open, panic flaring for a millisecond before memory washed over me. We are safe. We are home. We are pregnant. I pushed myself up on my elbows, blinking against the light, my hair tumbling over my shoulders in a messy curtain. "Jerome?" I called out, my voice thick with sleep.
閱讀更多
