One would think she had lived here for years, the way she has made this place her own, with countless books strewn about and filling the shelves and her warm scent permeating the air. When he slips into her room, it is everything and nothing like the time he first visited her sleeping form in the castle, his dark gaze tracing the same soft curve of her cheek, the same smooth slope of her delicate nose, the gentle swell of her lower lip... Yet where hatred once burned in his veins, there is only an aching fondness, and even his hands seem less bloodied somehow than they were once before.