Elara
I woke up to the feeling of breath against my ear. Warm and stale.
My eyes fluttered open and met the early morning gloom of Dorian’s apartment, the faint light slipping between the blinds casting thin grey stripes across the unmade bed. My body ached in places I didn’t want to think about. My throat was raw from crying last night, though I didn’t dare let him hear a sound. Dorian had come to my apartment drunk last night insisting I follow him to his apartment. I rubbed my temple, just to meet him staring deep at me.
“Morning, pretty girl.”
His voice was husky with sleep, deceptively soft as his fingers brushed down my bare arm. I resisted the urge to flinch. Instead, I lay still, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling, counting each tiny crack to keep my breathing even.
