TERESA'S P.O.V.
A soft but insistent knock on my door tugged me from the hazy grip of sleep. That had to be Adrian; no one else had come to my place so early in the month and half I'd been living here. I sleepily blinked at the clock—8 a.m. Oh, thank goodness, I thought with relief. Yesterday, Adrian had shown up at 7 on the dot, catching me in full-on bedhead mode. Today, however, was apparently a more civilized hour.
I stumbled to the door and opened it, and there he was—Adrian Daegon, standing there with his effortless charm, looking as put together as if he had an entire entourage behind him. His calm, knowing smile was the kind of smile that made you wonder if he was always this unruffled or if he practiced it in the mirror.
"Good morning, Teresa," he greeted, voice smooth as warm honey. "I'm here to take you to the hospital, just as promised."
