I was in my bed. My own massive, four-poster bed, with silky gold sheets and canopy curtains that could double as royal gowns. There were candles flickering like they were mocking me. A tray of jasmine tea—perfectly steeped—sat untouched by my bedside, still steaming. Even the rain outside was putting on a dramatic performance for my emotional breakdown, falling hard against the stained-glass windows like it was auditioning for a tragic opera.
Thunder rolled softly over the hills, the sky trying to seduce me back to calm.
But no.
I couldn’t.
Because I was internally combusting.
I was lying on top of the covers in my gold-embroidered robe. Wrapped around me like armor. Like maybe if I clung tight enough to silk and sass, I wouldn’t be defeated by the sheer unholy memory of Alaric’s lip
