Chris's head was in his hands. The coffee in front of him was untouched, steam curling up like a taunt. His usual latte had been replaced with something dark and merciless halfway through the week, after Dax declared that "milk isn't going to survive my court." Chris didn't argue because he needed the strength.
"I can't do it," he muttered, voice muffled against his palms. "I can't go back there. I'd rather die. Just kill me. Make it quick."
Across the table, Rowan and Nadia exchanged the kind of look people reserved for a friend in the middle of a breakdown or, in this case, a royal training schedule.
