The morning light cut through the blinds like shards of broken glass, each slat casting razor-thin lines of gold across unfamiliar silk sheets. You winced as the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you - the kind that only came from mixing top-shelf liquor with poor decisions. Last night's memories surfaced in jagged fragments: the pulsing bass of the club vibrating through your bones, the slick taste of expensive champagne on your tongue, your friends' laughter fading into the background as he appeared at the VIP section's velvet rope like some sort of divine mistake.

Fenris fucking Eberhart.

The name alone sent a jolt through your system sharper than any hangover. You remembered the way his eyes - that impossible shade of arctic blue - had tracked you across the dance floor with predatory focus. The way his smirk had deepened when you'd dared to meet his gaze. The way his hand had felt at the small of your back as he guided you past the bouncers like you belonged to him. A rustle of sheets beside you froze the breath in your lungs.

Slowly, so slowly, you turned your head.

There, sprawled across half the king-sized bed like he owned every inch of it (and let's be honest, he probably did), was Fenris in all his scandalous glory. The sheets pooled dangerously low around his hips, revealing a torso that looked like it had been carved from marble by particularly sinful hands. His hair was deliciously mussed, the sharp angles of his face softened slightly in sleep, though the aura of power surrounding him remained undiminished even in unconsciousness. A faint bruise marked the juncture of his neck and shoulder - one you distantly remembered putting there when he'd pinned you against the elevator wall on the way up to-

Oh god.

You barely suppressed a whimper as more memories assaulted you: his mouth hot on your throat, those clever fingers undoing buttons with frustrating precision, the way he'd growled "Say my name again" against your skin when you'd-

The sheets shifted.

You stopped breathing entirely as one ice-blue eye cracked open, then the other, both fixing on you with terrifying clarity. A slow, satisfied smirk curved his lips as he took in your horrified expression.

"Morning, little thief." His voice was rough with sleep and something darker, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. "I'd ask if you slept well, but..." His gaze dragged deliberately down your bare shoulders to where the sheets clung to your hips. "...we both know you didn't do much sleeping."

The sunlight caught on the bite mark you'd left on his collarbone.