"Hahaha!"
Seraphina's laughter echoed down the quiet hallway of the inn, sharp and uninhibited.
Her arm was draped heavily over Dorian's shoulder, her footing unsteady as she leaned her entire weight against him.
From the way she wobbled with every step, nearly tripping over the hem of her own dress, it wouldn't take a genius to guess she was completely drunk. The elegant warrior had been replaced by a giggling mess.
Dorian, ever the patient husband, wrapped a strong arm around her waist to keep her upright.
He practically carried her the rest of the way, guiding her stumbling feet toward the room they had rented earlier that evening.
Maria walked silently behind them. For the most part, she had avoided the alcohol.
Her reasons were twofold: she wanted to cherish every word of her conversation with Dorian, and more importantly, she had been strictly advised that strong drink would be harmful to the child growing within her.
