In the doorway. Her thick body. Her dark blue gown. Her piled hair. Her dark brown eyes. She looked at the scene. She looked at the man. She did not move.
Her eyes were furious.
Not at the women. Not at the debauchery. Not at the nakedness. At him. At the man who had fucked her and who had not come back. Who had given her one night and who had then— disappeared. Who had left her. Who had left her in the palace. With the king. With the man who tied her to bedposts. Who had not returned. Who had not saved her.
Who was now here. On a throne. With other women.
Her eyes found his.
Dark brown met violet. The gaze was direct. Unwavering. The gaze of a woman who has been fucked by a king and fucked by a devil and who knows the difference and who is furious at both.
Raven stood.
