The morning light coming through the big windows of the Queen's chamber wasn't the harsh gray glow of dawn in Dreadmoor. It was a soft, honey-gold light that felt a bit unsettling, showing off the swirling dust particles in the air and the opulence that still felt a bit weird to Soren. He was still lying on the bed, eyes wide open, totally clear in his mind about what had happened last night.
Last night, he cried himself to sleep, with Aethel holding his hand the whole time. He screamed and shouted at Lucian, yelling for him not to come inside. He didn't want to see Lucian or smell his scent. Think about his low, deep voice, breaking like a young woman going through puberty, just because of the pain, or who knows what he was feeling last night. He felt a mix of frustration and anger.
And, of course he was embarrassed to face Lady Aethel after what had happened. He cried and wailed like a child losing a toy. He let out a sigh.
