Sleeping on a wooden war table was, objectively, a terrible idea.
Sleeping on a wooden war table after being thoroughly rearranged by an Alpha Prince who treated sex like a competitive sport was an even worse idea.
Elian woke up to the smell of ozone, cold air, and his own dried sweat. His entire body felt like one giant, pulsing bruise, particularly his lower back and thighs. He groaned, burying his face deeper into the heavy black fur of the Warlord's Mantle that served as his blanket.
Elian cracked one eye open.
Cassian was already awake. The Prince was fully armored again, his dark steel breastplate strapped tight, his sword resting against his hip. He stood at the edge of the table, looking down at Elian.
Despite having likely slept less than two hours, Cassian looked like a god of war. His ice-blue eyes were sharp, scanning the parchment maps that were now hopelessly crumpled beneath Elian's legs.
Elian tried to sit up and instantly regretted it. "Ow. My spine is dust."
