on her dressing robe, shuffling her feet into
her shearling-lined slippers. Even with spring
fully upon them, the mornings were chill.
Indeed, Fleetfoot lay beside the fire on her
little cushioned bed, curled up tightly. And as
equally exhausted as Rowan, apparently. The
hound didn’t bother to crack open an eye.
Aelin threw the blankets back over
Rowan’s naked body, smiling down at him
when he didn’t so much as stir. He much
preferred the physical rebuilding—working
for hours on repairing buildings and the city
walls—to the courtly bullshit, as he called it.
Meaning, anything that required him to put on
nice clothing.
Yet he’d promised to dance with her at
Lysandra and Aedion’s wedding. Such
unexpectedly fine dancing skills, her mate
had. Only for special occasions, he’d warned
after her coronation.
lily
(lily)
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