POV: Clara

By the time Clara left Daniel’s loft, dawn had smeared itself gray against the horizon.

The rain had ended, but the air still reeked of it — and oil, and runoff gushing down the gutters.

The blanket he’d thrown around her shoulders clung heavy, sodden in his scent: woodsmoke, and pine, and musk, and something darker that was only his.

She wanted to toss it. God, she wanted to yank it off and dump it in the gutter.

But the tether pulsed hot when ...