Sylvia expected the Queen of Rohan to be waiting at the bottom of the aircraft stairs.
She had spent the final minutes of descent preparing for exactly that possibility, straightening a dress that had never been crooked, arranging her expression into something respectful without appearing terrified, and trying to remember whether one bowed to Heather as a foreign noblewoman, Thomas's mate, or the newly classified dominant omega whose medical registration had probably reached half the royal administration before the wheels touched the ground.
When the cabin door opened, cold mountain air entered first, carrying the scents of rain, fuel, and pine.
Thomas stepped onto the stairs ahead of her, then turned and held out his hand.
