Moonlight streamed in through the window near the bed, spilling over them like liquid silver. He took a moment to look at Petra, lying on her side with her hand tucked beneath her cheek. She looked ethereal, like an angel. He’d watched her sleep before, but it was different. She was different, because of what had happened in the last few days. She wasn’t a vulnerable princess, wasn’t just a distant dream to him either. He could touch her now, could let her wake and see him. No, he couldn’t touch her. He would never stop. He got out of bed with hardly a rustle of sheets. She’d gone into his soul. He was angry about that, but he shouldn’t be. He’d done it to her. The difference being, she never knew, and he never used what he’d found to prod old wounds. He grabbed clothes out of a drawer and went downstairs to change. He stepped outside and filled his lungs with cool, clean air. The moon lit up the yard and house, like a silvery version of daylight. He smelled only pines, heard only the normal sounds of the night, and sensed only what should be there.
