Giving Over

ELIA

She woke in what had to be the dark of night. Aymora must have left a small light on somewhere. Light seemed to draw from a small source behind her, just barely enough to see the shapes and shadows of the room—and the great shoulders of her mate, curled up on a cot next to her.

Her heart leapt when she saw him, smelled him. He had one arm extended, resting on her cot as if he reached for her, even in sleep.

Rolling over slowly so she wouldn't wake him, she examined his face in the dim light.

He was shirtless, and the blanket had fallen off his shoulders, to his waist. But the cold didn't seem to touch him.

His brow was lined. There were bruises and scratches all over him. And his jaw was tight. She yearned to reach for him, to push back the chunks of hair that had fallen over his face. But she didn't want to wake him.