The dinner tray had been settled on the low table near the window, the steam from the roasted fowl and spiced tubers rising in thin, lazy curls against the glass.
Eris had given her instructions. They were clear, imperial, and left no room for deviation: he was to wash, he was to eat, and she would wait in the outer room until he resembled a civilized man.
But Soren had never been particularly good at following instructions that kept him away from her.
He reappeared at the washroom door, his skin still damp, a loose robe thrown over his shoulders. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't wait for her to finish her sentence about the palace acoustics. He simply walked across the rug, his hand finding hers with a silent, magnetic certainty.
"Soren, I told you to..."
The protest began, but it was a half-hearted thing.
It died in her throat because the bath was already drawn, the water steaming and fragrant with the oils he had always preferred.
