Waking up as the Queen of Arindale felt suspiciously similar to waking up as a captive, mostly because Aeron Valdamar absolutely refused to let her go.
The morning sun poured through the massive, uncurtained windows of the master bedchamber. Kaia lay on her stomach, buried deep in the charcoal velvet sheets. Aeron's heavy, muscular arm was draped over her back, his hand resting possessively on the curve of her hip, right over her heart-shaped birthmark. His face was buried in her messy silver hair.
For the first time since she had arrived at the palace, Kaia did not feel the immediate, suffocating urge to check the locks on the door.
There was no Watchdog waiting in the sitting room. There was no Emperor plotting her demise. There was only the Sinner, and the entire empire he had just laid at her feet.
"You are thinking," Aeron's voice rumbled, sleep-gravelly and thick, vibrating against her bare spine. "It is too early for politics."
