Her wrath was a black, fathomless sea, and she rode the crest of every swell like a war galley bearing down for the ram.
Her chest heaved as the waves swelled , and fell when they sinked , fixing the man who had conjured the gale with eyes that could have peeled the skin from his bones.
She struck him again. And again.
"Allowed? Allowed?!" she shrieked, the heavy oak doors of the bedchamber shuddering on their bolts.
The room was barred from the inside, but Alpheo harbored no comforting illusions, her screams would carry clear through the timber, echoing down the stone gallery for every guard and maid to savor and gossip about, ranging from her founding out about a lover or him promising the hand of their girl to a beggar.
The King ducked his chin into the crook of his elbow as another open-handed blow cracked against his brow. It struck hard against the temple bone; from the sharp, choked hiss she let out, he knew her palm ached far more than his skull.
