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Except, when he relaxed back into the pillow, eyes still closed, his arm landed over a living softness that was most definitely not his mattress.

He snapped fully into consciousness and scrambled up, vision filled with distinctly feminine hills and valleys draped in chestnut tresses.

What the…?

Brand searched his memories of the night before. Aldiat and Frida’s mating ceremony, the feast afterwards, the⁠—

Fuck. The drinking games. No part of him recalled inviting someone to bed, but that was unsurprising when paired with the sheer amount of ale he’d consumed at Thad’s behest.

Most surprising, though, was finding himself with someone else in his own chamber.

He’d never allowed that. Not once.

A prickle worked up Brand’s spine and over his shoulders, his throat tightening. He swallowed against the rising panic, the loss of words, the cold sweat.

Ridiculous, considering he’d probably worshipped every inch of her and more mere hours ago.

Water. He needed cold water. A drink and bracing splash to the face would hopefully halt the episode that was threatening. Perhaps once he was grounded again, he could think of a polite way to remove his strange bed partner.

Sisters, he was such an arsehole. He didn’t even remember what she looked like.

Brand slid from beneath the sheets as gently as possible, fighting her admittedly glorious hair the whole way, their impossible lengths clinging to bloody everything. Of course, his stomach chose that moment to turn over. The nausea skittered, almost painful, and he gritted his teeth to keep from losing his supper all over a complete stranger.

Wonderful.

He breathed deep and shook himself, refusing to be sabotaged by his own traitorous body.

Sisters damn Thaddeus and his antics. Brand was never drinking again.

He was swinging his legs over the side of the bed when a flash caught his eye. Curiosity got the better of him despite his physical state, and he leaned in to examine the edge of a wide sleeve that was peeking from under the overturned blanket.

Brand knew that embroidery. And not just because the pattern belonged to the Wolflords. No, he knew that specific copper thread woven into that exact celadon fabric.

He couldn’t help pinching the seam, as if the feel would disprove what his eyes were telling him. But when he caught sight of moonlight skin, iridescent flecks dancing over an elegant hand and forearm, there was no stifling his gasp.

There was a Sorcerit in his bed, somehow wearing Mag’s robe.

Burning Solyrian. Had he lost a bet? Brand couldn’t fathom how else he ended up sleeping with a Nachthellian, of all creatures. Arrogant, most of them, down to his own youngest brother. In essence, not at all his type.

As if she heard the insult, his intruder shot upright, his hold on the robe tugging it from her shoulder. He stared, transfixed. The light was hitting her just so, and Brand would swear he could picture her body wrapped in lilac silk. Perfection, actually. Otherworldly.

Maybe he had gone willingly.

A shiver worked over her and she tensed. Shite, she was about to turn around, and he would have to speak to her even though he felt like absolute dragon⁠—

The Sorcerit did just as he thought, a blur of opal and curls.

And all Brand knew after a fleeting glimpse of shining, sea glass eyes was darkness and pain.

Lunara’s pulse roared in her ears, the rhythmic thump stuck somewhere between hope and terror.

Brand was looming behind her. The weight of his gaze sent a rush of goosebumps over her tender skin. The heat of his hand where it gripped her sleeve chased them away.

He was awake, and nearly every particle in Lunara’s body was screaming at her to turn around and throw herself into his arms.

Nearly every particle. The rest of them hadn’t forgotten the agony of his rescue. The lack of recognition. The…betrayal.

No. That wasn’t him. Not really.