Amara sat at the head of the table. She looked small, swallowed by a silk robe of midnight blue that was far too large for her, the sleeves rolled up in thick cuffs to free her hands. She was methodically working through a plate of eggs and toast, her eyes fixed on a holographic tablet that displayed the morning's market fluctuations and the repair invoices for the front gates. Beside her, Darien sat closer than decorum usually allowed. His chair was angled toward hers, his hand resting possessively on the back of her seat, his eyes, now a permanent, radiant amber-gold, never straying far from the pulse point at her neck.
And then there was Hansen.
