Freya‘s pov.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, wrapping the room in a golden haze. I was stirred from sleep by something far gentler than sound—Dorian's lips pressing feather-light kisses across my shoulder, then my neck, then my cheek.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and warmth. "Today, there’s no rush. No battles. Just us."

His words were like honey—slow, warm, comforting. He kissed his way down, across my ...