Nerine sat at the long dining table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A silver spoon rested untouched on the rim of her bowl, steam from the broth swirling faintly into the air. She tried to focus on anything but the man sitting at the far end of the table.
Kael.
He had not spoken a word since entering, and she could not forget the way his eyes had lingered—no, burned—earlier that morning when she had barged into his chamber, foolishly, in nothing but her nightgown. She had wanted to demand answers about the blood, about the memories clawing through her mind, but instead she had collided with his bare chest, freshly washed, droplets of water still sliding across his skin. The memory of his gaze traveling over her thin garment, the way her cheeks had flamed, still left her stomach in knots.
And now, here she was—pretending to sip her soup, pretending not to think about it, pretending not to notice him at all.
