"Let her watch," Auren said, his gaze fixed on the closed door. "Let her report back to my grandmother that the rebel girl has the prince wrapped around her little finger. Let them underestimate us. It's the only advantage we have."
The nights were the hardest. Arin would lie in his bed, the scent of him a constant, unsettling presence in the dark. He would sit in the chair by the door, a silent, sleepless guardian. She would listen to the sound of his breathing, to the faint rustle of pages as he read by the light of a single candle.
She would think of Caldan, and the grief would be a physical weight, pressing down on her. And then, in the next breath, she would think of the man sitting just a few feet away, of his conflicted honor, of the raw pain in his eyes. The guilt over the kiss, over her whispered confession of another man's name, was a constant, sharp-edged companion.
