The first rays of the northern sun, weaker than their southern counterparts but still carrying a promise of light, filtered through the intricately carved ice-crystal windows of Sect Mistress Meng Yao's private chamber. The air was still, carrying the faint, musky scent of their night-long passion, mingled with the exotic fragrance of the incense that had long since burned out.
Alaric lay propped against a pile of plush furs, his arm draped possessively over Meng Yao's naked, sleeping form. She was nestled against his side, her usually severe features softened in the deep slumber of utter exhaustion, her long black hair a silken river across the white furs. Her magnificent body, marked with the evidence of his relentless claiming – faint bruises on her pale skin, love bites on her neck and inner thighs, the general air of a woman thoroughly, exquisitely ravaged – radiated a surprising warmth.
