[IRAYA]
The door was open just enough, and the low crackling of the fireplace inside reached my ears like a whispered invitation. I peeked in.
There, sprawled on the long couch before the hearth, was Lyander.
He wasn't reading or smirking or plotting his next way to torment me.
He was sleeping.
Or—at least I thought he was.
He sat reclined, long legs stretched out, one arm resting behind his head while the other hung lazily over his lap. His coat was off, a thick wool blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. His face, half-lit by firelight, looked younger somehow. Peaceful.
The sharpness I always braced for had softened. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, and the slight part of his lips made him look . . . almost breakable.
I knew I should leave.
But I didn't.
