Damian stared up at the ceiling. This moment was excruciating. If it was a method of torture—and it very well could be—he was sure that it would be banned by the Herzegovina Conventions of War. Yet, here he was forced to remain, confined to his bed, unable to move. Waiting until Aziramin woke up, so that he could get up and pee.
In truth, he could simply nudge her aside, but Damian was anything but a brutish beast. He knew better than to risk waking her.
As he concentrated, focused on ensuring that Aziramin’s omelet did not split and fall apart in the pan, Damian became aware that there was a pair of eyes boring straight into him. He risked a glance over his shoulder. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re… not upset with me, are you?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“Up
