EMBER’S POV

Knox sleeps like a man who hasn’t done it in years. Which, knowing him, might actually be the case.

His face in my lap, one arm slung across my thighs, the other tucked under the pillow I wedged beside him around hour three because my leg was going numb and I refused to wake him for something as selfish as blood circulation.

His breathing has been steady for six hours straight. He has had no nightmares or gold flickering behind his lids.

And I have spent every minute of it memorising the architecture of his face without the armour on it.

He looks younger asleep. The sharpness softens....