The night was a deep, velvety indigo, the hour hovering in the silent stretch between three and four. Eliora slept on, ensnared not by dreams, but by the chilling reality of Azael’s embrace. His right hand splayed across her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles around her navel through the thin silk of her nightgown. His head was propped on his left hand, his storm-silver eyes observing her with an unnerving, possessive stillness. Her back was pressed tightly against the cool, hard plane of his chest, the heavy, dark fabric of his robes spilling over the sheets and across her legs like a shroud. The oppressive heat of the night had yielded to the perpetual winter that clung to him, a chill that seeped into the very air.