Every king has a room where the crown comes off. Maddox's was a borrowed guest room across from a biohazard, and the woman in it couldn't hear a word he was about to say, which was the only reason he was going to say it.
Maddox stripped without ceremony.
His ribs caught as he pulled the shirt over his head, a dull complaint where the break had been that morning. Aldric's work had knit them nearly whole, the bruising faded to a yellow-green ghost across his side, healing at dragon speed and grumbling about it the whole way. He ignored it. Broken ribs were the least interesting thing that had happened today.
His briefs stayed on purely because Blair had a lockpicking addiction and zero respect for personal boundaries.
He crossed to the bed and eased the cloth off her forehead, setting it aside.
Then he went to work.
