The mansion's dining hall smelled of roasted meats and honeyed bread, with long tables lined with polished silver and steaming platters.
Aragon sat with Malaica at his side, the glow of dawn filtering through tall windows, throwing pale firelight across their faces.
Their bodies still remembered the night's frenzy—the bruises, the soreness, the secret ache—but their eyes revealed what their lips dared not say in front of others.
Every now and then, as he lifted his goblet or tore a chunk of bread, Aragon's gaze slid to Malaica.
The faintest curve of her lips answered him, a flicker of heat hidden beneath the mask of nobility. She held herself with perfect grace, the tone of a lady untouched, yet the hunger in her eyes belied the truth.
Freja saw it first.
