Drogo stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the cold water still clinging to his face as he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The nausea had settled enough for him to stand straight again, but the memory of what he had seen the previous night still crawled under his skin like something alive.
When he returned to the room, he stopped briefly.
The table beside the bed was now a battlefield of empty dishes.
Every plate that had been delivered by room service—the food meant for the two of them—had been cleared out almost entirely. Bowls were scraped clean, glasses empty, silverware pushed aside with the casual neglect of someone who had enjoyed a very satisfying meal.
