The next morning, Chris looked at his husband with deep suspicion.
A long, narrow-eyed suspicion of a man who had married a seven-foot-three king, knew exactly what that implied in private, and was now being forced to sit with the consequences in broad daylight while every part of his body filed separate complaints.
He was in a chair by the bedroom windows, one leg folded carefully beneath him, the other positioned with the caution of someone who had discovered several new muscles overnight and did not care to discuss any of them. His black hair was still slightly damp from a second bath, his clothes soft and loose, and his expression sharp enough to cut glass despite the obvious air of someone who had been thoroughly overruled by his own mate for most of the night.
Across from him, Dax sat in another chair with Nero in his arms.
Which was unfair.
