Lucian carried her out of the roar and the lights, past the wardens and the elders, already arguing about the seam and the net. Casius cleared the corridor with a look. Doors that are rarely open for anyone opened for their king.
His rooms were quiet and wide. High stone walls. Dark beams. A long window with moon-cut glass. A low fire glowed in the slate hearth.
He set Talia on the edge of the bed—broad, low, dressed in soft linen the color of ash. “Tell me where it’s worst,” he said, already unbuckling torn laces with careful hands.
“Thigh. Ribs. Forearm. Throat,” she said. “So… yes.”
His mouth eased. “May I help you undress?”
Color climbed on her cheeks—high, hot—but her chin didn’t drop. “Yes.” Then, because truth came out sideways when you were tired and honest, “I’m sorry I’m no
