"I will massage you again later… but now you must eat. Porridge is good for your stoma—"
Arkai froze.
At dinner, the spoon hovered in the air, suspended between the bowl and Cecilia's lips, caught in the terrible crosshairs of her gaze. She had turned her head just slightly, and though her face was hidden beneath a veil, the weight of her stare was a physical thing.
It literally felt like a blade of ice pressed directly against his windpipe.
The century-old wolf knew that right now, he was, in the grand scheme of things, just a man holding a spoon and hoping his wife would not murder him in front of a dozen of guests.
Eastiel had fled back to the warzone the moment they returned to the residence. Something about "urgent battlefield developments" and "troop movements" and "I definitely cannot stay for breakfast, good luck, Brother."
Fucking coward.
