The first, faint hint of pearl-grey light was just beginning to bleed into the indigo sky, but in Eliora’s chambers, night still held its dominion. She slept, a fragile figure amidst the silken sheets, her breathing still hitching occasionally from the aftermath of terror-filled dreams. Azael lay beside her, a statue of dark elegance and absolute possession. One hand was splayed possessively across her stomach, the thin fabric of her nightgown no barrier to his cold touch. His storm-silver eyes were open, watching the play of moonlight on the tear-tracks that had dried on her cheeks. He was tracing idle, intimate patterns on her hip, a silent reaffirmation of his claim, when a thought, cold and amused, crossed his mind.

It was time for his morning visit.