He stood near the tall windows of the east sitting room, autumn light pooling around him in soft gold, catching on the crisp white shirt he'd rolled to the elbows and the dark trousers he'd barely had time to choose before Rowan dragged him here. The binder in his hands felt heavy in that special, soul-draining way only royal paperwork could achieve.
A binder prepared by Dax himself, labeled 'CONSORT: EXECUTIVE EXPECTATIONS, YEAR ONE' in gold print.
Every so often, a gust of warm late-autumn air slipped in through the barely open window, carrying the smell of dry leaves and the faint hum of life beyond the palace walls. It should have relaxed him.
It did not.
Behind him on the velvet chaise, Cressida lounged like a satisfied general after a victorious campaign, her tea steaming gently beside her. She had the smug serenity of someone who'd spent a week breaking an omega into proper form and now got to admire the results.
