Chapter 89 – Mortals and Their Schedules
He walked toward his suite.
His boots barely made a sound against the plush carpet. The door recognized the keycard—clicked open with a quiet ding.
He stepped inside, and—
The scent hit him first.
Not perfume. Not sex.
Soap. Shampoo. Clean towels. A faint trace of honey-scented body lotion mixed with sea-salt musk that could only belong to one person.
He grinned before even seeing her.
The breakfast trays had been raided. One silver dome was off and lying sideways like it had died heroically in battle. Croissant crumbs scattered across the table like a pastry massacre. Half a cup of orange juice sat forgotten next to an open sachet of jam.
Then he heard the whooshing sound of a hair dryer behind the bathroom door.
Rava stepped out just as he tossed his keycard on the marble counter with a flick of his fingers.
