“Tell me my queen never slept in barracks."
“Never.” She added quickly, “I brought him tomytent.”
“Where was Storne?”
“Far away. In Rhidian.”
His mouth curved.
“Scandalous, Elarien. Sleeping with a soldier.”
“You’ve done worse.”
A reckless spark in her tone.
He leaned forward, as if drawn closer by the challenge.
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
His eyes gleamed, predator and prince both.
“Is that… all they say?”
Too long, he didn’t blink.
The robe slipped from her shoulder, her pulse leaping where his gaze lingered. Then she glanced aside, and laughter cut the string.
“So when the war ends, what then?” he asked, settling back with his hands behind his head. “You and your soldier king in a tent forever?”
The words left her steady, her chin lifted.
“Better a tent with love than a palace without.”
“Dask, do I know that.”
His head tipped, as if a ghost slipped past him.
“Do you always look like that,” she asked, “when you’re thinking of her?”
He huffed a laugh, sadness at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re about to find out, Elarien. The crown is a cage.”
He watched the darkness a moment longer, as if longing might mend his broken family—as if the children were not his alone now.
“Xavien…”
Her whisper fractured into fear.
Her hands found her belly, holding what could be there.
“Did you mean it—in the scrying room? That you'd raise his child… as your own?”
His dark eyes held hers.
Every breath between them chased fears she couldn’t name.
