The bedroom was quiet, washed in the low amber glow of the headboard light. The city beyond the glass had gone dark, leaving only distant constellations of traffic far below.
The room was beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the woman lying in my bed.
Alina rested against the pillows, silk sheets tangled at her waist. The bruises were still there—muted under the warm light—but they didn't steal anything from her. If anything, they made her skin burn deeper, like polished gold beneath the yellow light.
Her hair spilled across the pillow in soft waves.
And those green eyes… they weren't sharp now. No teasing. Just watching me—soft, steady, and unwilling to look away.
I sat on the edge of the mattress. The antiseptic stung the air, clashing with the faint trace of her perfume.
"What are you looking at?" I whispered, tearing my gaze away from hers.
I pressed a fresh strip of tape across the bridge of her nose, my fingers careful against the bruised skin.
