Dahlia

He is still here in the morning.

Not a dream. Not a trick of grief. Alaric is real and warm and unfairly gorgeous, sprawled shirtless like the mattress is his throne and I am the only subject he intends to rule. The light through the curtains softens him, silver at the cheekbone, gold at the shoulder. There is a faint scar near his collarbone that I don’t remember kissing. Another lower, above his ribs, that makes something low in me ache with the idea of teeth.

I ...