The soft morning light filtered through the tall glass windows of Prudence's chamber, casting patterned beams across the heavy drapes and the ivory quilt of the bed. A subtle fragrance of chamomile lingered in the air from the herbs laid out on the side table, now half dried. Prudence stirred beneath the warm folds of the blanket, her eyelids fluttering open with reluctant grace. The first thing she saw was the tall figure seated beside her.
Vincent.
He was immersed in a thick, leather-bound book, its cover worn at the edges. His brows were slightly furrowed, his lips faintly parted as his eyes danced over the text. There was a stillness to him, so precise, so composed, that Prudence nearly forgot the ruthlessness that had dripped from his voice the previous night, not towards her but others.
And yet, here he was. Reading. relaxed in posture. Almost pulling off kind.
