Alaric left his study with long strides, the morning light catching the sharp lines of his tunic.
The memory of the conversation with Aidan lingered, but another weight pressed heavier, his wife, the woman he had claimed so utterly the night before.
He entered the chamber quietly.
Breathtaking. She looked breathtaking.
Daphne was already dressed, standing before the tall mirror, the high-collared gown she wore cinched at the waist, flowing to the floor in soft folds. But even the regal fabric could not hide his marks.
He had ensured that nothing could.
Alaric's eyes darkened, desire, pride, and possessive fire burning within them.
He stepped closer, silent until he reached her, placing his hands around her waist.
"You are so beautiful princess. You see," he murmured, "nothing can hide that you're mine."
Her breath caught.
She did not speak, words would fail her, but the tension between them was electric, charged with both warning and desire.
