Aeron Valdamar was a man of his word.
He had promised to keep his new Queen locked in their cavernous, doorless super-suite for three days, and he had executed that promise with terrifying, exhausting, and utterly spectacular dedication.
By the afternoon of the third day, the sprawling royal chambers looked as though they had been the site of a very localized, highly luxurious hurricane.
A discarded corset hung precariously from the arm of a mahogany chair. A pristine white silk glove was draped over a crystal lamp. The heavy charcoal velvet sheets of the massive central bed were tangled in a chaotic knot that completely defied the efforts of any theoretical maid.
Kaia lay on her stomach amidst the wreckage of the pillows, wearing only Aeron's unbuttoned white linen shirt.
She felt boneless. She felt entirely, molecularly ruined.
"I cannot feel my legs," Kaia murmured into the mattress. "I am fairly certain they detached from my body sometime yesterday."
