““Aelin awoke, drenched in sweat and twisted in the sheets, fear clenching her like a fist. She willed herself to breathe, to blink—to look at the moon-bathed room, to turn her head and see the Fae Prince slumbering across the bed. Alive—not tortured, not dead. Still, she reached a hand out over the sea of blankets between them and touched his bare shoulder. Rock-hard muscle encased in velvet-soft skin. Real.””
