She should be afraid …

 … Tess realized drowsily, as she opened her eyes and first saw the huge dark silhouette framed against the blood-red sky beyond the slit of window. In his billowing cloak he reminded her of a fierce hawk limned in fire. Galen.

She wasn’t afraid. There was something supremely natural in waking and seeing Galen watching her. She was glad the waiting was over. The years had passed so slowly, the loneliness had gone on too long. “Galen …” She inhaled sharply as he turned his face toward her. The features were the same, but his expression made them alien to her. He looked younger, harder, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, his lips curving in a reckless smile that held an element of cruelty. “I think it would be best if we talk,” she murmured.

“I’m done with talk.” He shrugged off his cloak and dropped it on the carpet in front of the hearth. “And I’m done with waiting.”

Waiting. The word stirred something in her memory, a realization that had come to her in that half-waking state only a moment ago. “You’re not yourself. Let’s go back to the palace and we’ll—”

“On the contrary, you’ve never seen me more myself than I am at this moment.” He unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and dropped it carelessly on the floor. His tone was soft, easy, almost carefree, and yet Tess found herself tensing as if confronted by a wild animal. The comparison was apt because in this moment Galen seemed a magnificent catlike creature, lithe, silken, completely sensual.