Sleeping on a war table was a terrible idea. Sleeping on a war table after being thoroughly wrecked by an Alpha riding the high of a battlefield victory was an even more terrible idea.
When Elian finally forced his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was the suffocating warmth of the Warlord's Mantle draped over him. The second was the deep, pulsing ache radiating outward from his lower back.
He groaned, burying his face deeper into the thick black fur.
"Good morning," a deep voice vibrated right against his chest.
Elian cracked one eye open.
Cassian was already awake. The Prince was propped up on one elbow, his dark hair falling in messy waves across his forehead. He looked way too energized for a man who had barely slept, his ice-blue eyes bright and fixed on Elian's face. Slowly, gently, Cassian traced the edge of Elian's cheekbone with his thumb.
"You rode well, Steward. But your body is unaccustomed to the saddle."
