Good Morning, Rhys

Chapter One: Good Morning, Rhys

Sienna Quinn woke to the smell of rain, cedar, and something faintly smoky, like a candle that had been blown out in a room full of expensive secrets.

That was her first clue that something was wrong.

Her apartment did not smell like cedar. Her apartment smelled like lavender laundry detergent, the lemon cleaner she kept forgetting to put away, and the slightly suspicious coffee grounds she had spilled behind the toaster three days ago and chosen, as an adult woman with free will, not to deal with yet.

Her second clue was the bed.

The bed beneath her was enormous. Absurdly enormous. It could have hosted a diplomatic summit, a minor wedding, and at least three people avoiding their feelings. The sheets were black silk, cool against her bare arms, and the pillows were soft enough that her skull seemed to sink into them with a level of luxury she immediately distrusted.

Sienna kept her eyes closed.

This was fine.

This was obviously a dream.

A very expensive dream, apparently, which was new. Usually her dreams involved showing up to work without shoes, forgetting her email password, or trying to convince her mother that no, she did not need to start dating her dentist's nephew just because he "owned property."

Somewhere beyond the bed, rain tapped softly against tall windows. Wind moved through open curtains with a whisper of night air, carrying the scent of wet stone, jasmine, and distant river water. There was no traffic. No radiator knocking. No upstairs neighbor dragging furniture across the floor at seven in the morning as if training for a competitive sport.

Sienna opened one eye.

A vaulted ceiling arched above her, painted in deep midnight blue and scattered with tiny stars that shimmered as though someone had trapped the sky indoors. A chandelier of dark crystal hung from its center, catching the gray morning light in fractured violet glints. Beyond the bed, an enormous fireplace sat cold and elegant against one wall, its mantel carved with curling mountain peaks and crescent moons. Bookshelves lined another wall. Actual bookshelves. Tall, polished, dramatic bookshelves that made her IKEA shelf at home look like it had given up on life.

Sienna opened the other eye.

Then she slowly turned her head.

A man was sleeping beside her.

Not just a man.

A man.

He lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm shoved under a pillow, black hair falling across his forehead in soft, sleep-tousled waves. His bare shoulders were visible above the sheet, broad and golden in the pearly morning light, the muscles of his back shifting faintly with each slow breath. He looked like every fantasy book cover had gotten together, hired a sculptor, and said, "Make him arrogant, but in a way that ruins lives."

Sienna stared at him.

The man breathed.

Sienna stared harder.

The man's lashes fluttered.

Sienna sat upright and screamed.

The man jerked awake with such violent grace that it would have been impressive if Sienna had not been busy scrambling backward, getting tangled in silk sheets, and nearly launching herself off the side of the enormous bed.

He sat up at the same time, eyes blazing open—violet eyes, because apparently her subconscious had no interest in subtlety—and magic exploded through the room like a storm taking a breath.