The cold night air bit into their open wounds.
Outside Prince Liam's gates, Carlos and Ashlyn were thrown onto the dirty street like bags of garbage. The royal guards turned and walked away, leaving them in the dust.
Carlos groaned as he pushed himself up from the ground. His back was on fire. His shirt was in ribbons, soaked in his own blood. He looked down at Ashlyn, who was still lying in the dirt, weeping quietly. Her dress was torn, and red whip marks covered her pale arms.
There was no pity in Carlos's eyes. There was only boiling, selfish anger. He blamed her for everything. He forgot that he was the one who had offered her to the Prince. He only remembered the pain of the whip and the shame of being thrown out.
"Get up," Carlos hissed, grabbing her good arm. He pulled her up roughly, ignoring her cry of pain.
