The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 146: Morning After

The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the chamber, casting long, honey-colored ribs of light across the wreckage of the previous night. It was the cusp of winter, the season where the air in Noctharis usually turned into a whetted blade, but inside the heavy oak bed, Ilaria was drowning in a sweltering, delicious heat.

She was tucked so deeply into the furs and linens that she felt like a cinnamon roll in a soft tangle of warmth and silk. For a long, hazy moment, she just lay there, her mind a blank, sunny slate. Her first conscious act was a slow, cat-like blink and the stiffness between her legs. Then, she felt a damp patch on the silk pillowcase.

"Oh, Saints," she squeaked into the fabric, her face flushing a vivid pink.

She scrambled to wipe the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then frantically rubbed the silk to erase the evidence, rolling over in a flurry of tangled limbs. Since she was cocooned in the blanket, her movement was a bit clumsy. She ended up flat on her back, staring at the canopy with a dazed, lopsided expression, her hair a wild violet bird’s nest across the pillows.

The light was too much. It was aggressive. It was morning. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sink back into the dream, but the memories of the previous night suddenly began to flood back with the force of a tidal wave.

Ah... right, we did... that...

Ilaria let out a muffled, strangled shriek, burying her face in her hands. She felt like she was vibrating. Was it possible to actually combust from embarrassment? She took a steadying breath and, with the morbid curiosity of a cat, lifted the edge of the blanket just enough to peek down at herself.

Her breath hitched.

There... faint, blooming purples and reddened heat on the ivory slope of her shoulder and the tops of her breasts was visible even in the dim light. She slammed the blanket shut, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. He did that. We did that. I said I... The thought of her confession made her want to burrow into the mattress and never come out.

She was mid-squirm, trying to figure out how to face the world again when the heavy latch of the chamber door clicked, making her freeze.

Levan stepped into the room, looking devastatingly casual in nothing but a burgundy silk robe tied loosely at his waist. His hair was still damp, sticking to his forehead in dark, rebellious spikes, and he carried the scent of cold morning air and cedar.

Ilaria stared at him, her eyes wide and blinking rapidly, before her brain short-circuited entirely. With a tiny, pathetic whimper, she ducked, pulling the duvet over her head until she was nothing but a silent, shaking lump in the middle of the bed.

Levan stopped, his gaze finding the suspicious, vibrating lump in the middle of the bed. He did not move for a moment, simply leaning against the bedpost and crossing his muscular arms over his chest as a slow, unequivocally fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning to you, too," he murmured, his voice still holding that gravelly friction from the night before.

The blanket lump did not move.

"Are you planning on staying under there until spring, Aria? Or are you just checking to see if the silk is still soft?"

"I am... contemplating," a muffled, dignified voice drifted out from the furs. "The world is very bright today, husband. My eyes are sensitive."

Levan let out a low, huffed laugh, his golden eyes dancing with a light she had never seen before. He reached out, his hand resting on the spot where he guessed her shoulder was, the heat of his palm seeping through the layers.

"It’s only bright because you’re finally awake," he teased, his tone dropping into something more intimate. "Come out. I’ve already seen all of you before last night. Hiding now is a bit like closing the gate after the stallion has already bolted, don’t you think?"

"That is a very poor metaphor," the muffled voice retorted, though the blankets wiggled as she attempted to burrow deeper. "And highly inappropriate for a royal bedchamber. I am not a bolted stallion, I am a victim of... of circumstances."

"Circumstances?" The bed shook slightly as he sat on the edge, the mattress tilting toward him. "Is that what we’re calling it now? I recall a great deal more enthusiasm from my ’victim’ only a few hours ago."

He did not wait for her permission. With a teasing deliberateness, he caught the hem of the heavy duvet. Ilaria let out a tiny, scandalized squeak, her fingers knotting into the fabric in a desperate tug-of-war, but Levan was a man who had breached city walls. A mere silk blanket stood no chance.

With one firm, elegant pull, he peeled back the layers just enough to reveal the top of her head, making Ilaria squeezed her eyes shut, her face buried sideways into the pillow as her hair fanned out in a chaotic, beautiful mess. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, rosy pink, and the bridge of her nose was scrunched in a defiant pout.

"There she is," he murmured, leaning over her until his shadow fell across her face, cool and steady. "The most formidable woman in my life, currently defeated by a single beam of sunlight."

"I am n-not defeated!" She huffed, her eyes darting everywhere but his face. "I am merely... preserving my dignity. It was a very long night. My brain is currently made of wool."

"Who said you need dignity in this bed?" He raised a brow, the challenge in his voice layered with a deep, rumbling warmth that made the air in the room feel suddenly electric. He leaned over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, his damp hair dripping a single, cool droplet onto her collarbone.

​Ilaria felt her heart stop, restart, and then perform a frantic, celebratory somersault. If the Saints were looking down, they were surely laughing at the state of her, because she was fairly certain she had just died and been resurrected as a puddle of molten sugar.

"You’re hovering," she gulped, trying to maintain her poise while being pinned by a man who looked like a God in a silk robe. "It’s very intimidating, husband. I feel like a rabbit caught by a particularly large, particularly smug wolf."

"A wolf who hasn’t had his breakfast yet," he grinned, his eyes glinting at her as his thumb trace the soft, sleep-warmed curve of her cheek.

Ilaria’s breath hitched so hard it was practically a wheeze. Her mind, usually a font of witty retorts and clever observations, went completely blank. Breakfast? Her?? Her gaze dropped instinctively to the opening of his robe and then snapped back up to his eyes, her face heating to a shade of red that would have put a summer beet to shame.

Levan let out a chuckle at her scandalized silence. Instead of pressing the tease, he let out a long, comfortable sigh and shifted his weight. With a grace that felt entirely too domestic for a man of his reputation, he lowered himself until his head rested sideways atop the soft, quilted duvet that was currently cocooning her.

Ilaria looked down at him, her heart performing a slow, dazed ache. There was a glow about him, a brightness in his golden eyes that made her throat ache with a sudden, overwhelming sweetness. Because he looked so... happy. Truly, deeply happy.

The silence that followed was not heavy or charged, it was achingly sweet. In the soft morning light, they both seemed to be glowing, a lingering radiance from a night that had changed everything. They were both marked by their passion, their skin humming with a shared history that was less than twelve hours old.

"You’re staring, Aria," he murmured.

"I am observing," she corrected softly, her shyness finally ebbing into something deeper and more reverent. She reached a hand out from the safety of the furs, her fingers tentatively brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You look... different today."

"Do I?"

"Mm," she nodded, her gaze tracing the relaxed line of his jaw. "You look like a man who isn’t expecting a battle at any moment. It’s a good look on you."

Levan opened one eye, the gold glinting with a lazy, satisfied warmth. "Is that a good thing? Or do you prefer the brooding soldier?"

​"I prefer this," she whispered, her heart doing a slow, dizzying roll. "Though the brooding soldier is quite handsome, this version of you is dangerous for my health. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave this bed if you keep looking at me like that."

Levan’s expression shifted, the teasing light in his eyes maturing into a quiet concern. He sat up slightly, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look her in the eye. The domestic softness was still there, but it was joined by that meticulous, protective streak that was so quintessentially him.

"Speaking of the bed," he murmured, his voice dropping into a more serious, intimate register. "How do you feel, Aria? Truly."

Ilaria beamed at him. "I feel fine... A bit like a very happy, very tired cloud."

He did not look entirely convinced, so he reached for the edge of the duvet.

Ilaria’s face went from soft rose to a brilliant, burning crimson in a heartbeat. She tried to pull the blanket back, but Levan’s grip was steady and firm. He did not strip her bare, but he peeled the silk back just enough to reveal the pale skin of her shoulder and the swell of her chest.

He went silent as he looked at the blossoming purples and faint reds where his touch and his lips had lingered.

"I was a brute," he muttered, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp guilt. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over a faint mark on her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin. "Tell me if I hurt you, Ilaria. I won’t forgive myself if I was too rough in my haste."

"You weren’t," she breathed, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck to draw him closer. "It doesn’t hurt, Lev. I don’t mind the marks. I like knowing they’re mine."

Levan let out a long, shaky exhale against her skin, inhaling deeply as if the scent of her was the only thing keeping him grounded. He shifted, his hand sliding beneath the cover to find her thigh, his touch light and clinical yet devastatingly intimate.

"You say that now, but you’re trembling," he noted, his voice dropping to a protective rasp. "I need to take care of you. Your legs will be stiff after what I put you through. If I had my wits about me, I would have brought the heated oils from the apothecary last night."

​Sensing his sudden frustration, Ilaria let out a soft breath, her fingers curling into the silk of his robe. "Levan, really... I’m not a wounded soldier. I’m just... a little overwhelmed."

"To me, you’re even more precious." He kissed the curve of her neck, his nose grazing her skin. "So please stay still. I’m going to draw a fresh bath, one with the salts for the muscles. And then I’m going to tend to you properly. I’ll make sure the ache is gone before we even think about leaving this room. And after that... after that, we’ll get our breakfast. Okay?"

Ilaria could only nod, her wit completely failing her as she melted into the mattress.

As she watched him walk toward the bathing chamber, his silhouette strong and certain against the morning frost, she grabbed the edge of the duvet and, with one swift motion, vanished back into the safety of her silk cocoon with a flustered whimper.