The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Master Suite, but for once, Aria didn't want to wake up and conquer the world. She wanted to burrow under the duvet, build a nest of pillows, and stay there for three to five business days. The bed was too comfortable, a cloud of high-thread-count cotton that smelled faintly of cedar and Damien, making the prospect of leaving it physically painful.
She tried to pull the blanket up to hide from the light, but her hands throbbed in protest. The cuts, worsened from her aggressive rummaging at the herbalist's shop, were stiff and sore beneath the gauze Damien had applied the night before. It felt like her fingers were encased in cement.
"Don't use your hands," a deep voice commanded from the edge of the bed.
Aria peeked one eye open.
