Morgana exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally loosening a little of the accumulated tension. She turned her face away from him, as if she needed a second of distance before saying anything.
But Damon waited.
He always waited.
And that irritated her—and comforted her—in equal measure.
She walked to the desk near the window, resting both hands on the cold wooden surface. The moon outlined her silhouette, highlighting the rigid contour of her shoulders and the trembling curve of her breath.
"There are no thorns…" she began, but her voice came out weak. She swallowed hard, starting again. "Actually, there are. There are several. And all of them are stuck too deep."
Damon took a step closer, but didn't touch her.
He always seemed to know exactly how far he could go.
Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.
"My father decided I must marry," she finally said, each word coming out like something burning as it crossed her throat.
