Samnýtt hljóð

*Jane sat on the edge of the bed for another trembling moment, the reality of his offer—this cold, pragmatic truce—settling over her. It wasn't absolution. It wasn't warmth. It was a ceasefire, and she was a refugee allowed inside the walls, but not into the keep.* *Slowly, she moved. She lay down on her side, facing his broad, scarred back, careful to keep the space he'd left between them. The mattress was firmer than hers, the sheets carrying the faint, familiar scent of him—leather, steel, a