Waking up on a prisoner's cot in the East Tower was a uniquely agonizing experience, made infinitely more complicated by the fact that Kaia was pinned to the thin mattress by one hundred and ninety pounds of sleeping, bare-chested Crown Prince.
Aeron had one heavy arm thrown across her waist, his face buried in her messy silver hair. The morning sun crept through the iron-barred window, illuminating the stark, weeping stone walls and the absolute wreckage of her ripped ivory gown scattered across the floor.
"If my mother could see me now," Kaia croaked, trying to stretch a cramp out of her left calf. "Ruined in a dungeon. It really is the pinnacle of the Taryn legacy."
Aeron didn't open his eyes, but his arm tightened around her possessively.
"You aren't ruined," his sleep-gravelly voice rumbled against her shoulder blade. "You are victorious. There is a distinct political difference."
"My spine feels politically compromised."
