I find Drogo standing in the garden, staring at the night sky. His back view is the very image of power—broad shoulders, hands tucked in his pockets, and his unusual shoulder-length hair tied neatly at the back.
As I approach, he turns to look at me. Those green eyes are unreadable, his expression as tight as ever.
“I... finished speaking with her. Thank you for the help,” I stutter, still not used to the way he stares at me. I can’t look away.
“So, what did your stepmother say?”
I hesitate, surprised he even asked. Would he care if I told him about the mate thing? Probably not. He’ll be busy with his mistress anyway. The thought twists in my chest like a knife.
“Nothing much. I just wish to talk to Morgan again before she leaves,” I mutter.
“You do not wish to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,
