The lingering chill of the dream followed Amara even as the morning sun climbed higher, turning the vast Dravik estate into a shimmering kingdom of glass and stone. The memory of the man with the obsidian hair and the golden eyes sat like a lead weight in her stomach, making the luxury of the master suite feel suddenly fragile.
By the time they moved to the private breakfast veranda, the atmosphere had shifted from the raw vulnerability of the bedroom to a cold, sharp tension. The table was spread with a feast that could have fed a small village, poached eggs with truffle, artisan breads, exotic fruits, and a carafe of coffee that smelled of dark chocolate and smoke. But the opulence was wasted.
