Rain whispered against the tall arched windows of Catherine's chambers, a soft, relentless patter that blurred the city lights into smears of gold and crimson beyond the glass.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the vast bed where silken sheets tangled around bare limbs. The air was heavy with the scent of beeswax candles, damp stone, and the lingering musk of earlier passion.
Aiden lay on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, staring up at the embroidered canopy overhead. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his eyes—those unnaturally perfect violet eyes—were fixed on nothing, replaying the day's audience like a battle he had lost.
