Kamal did not permit breakfast in bed.
Not even for newly bonded imperial disasters.
Liam discovered this approximately forty minutes after threatening sedation, surviving wound treatment, enduring a physician who inspected both marks with the calm professionalism of a man who clearly handled post-bonded nobles twice a week, and finally being allowed enough dignity to shower properly.
Now he sat at the diplomatic suite's breakfast table dressed in soft black lounge clothes provided by the palace, his damp hair loosely pushed back from his face, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee that smelled expensive enough to qualify as political bribery.
He wanted silence.
Instead, he had Agaronians.
