For a man who had just dismantled an explosive blockade, scaled a freezing canyon in the dark, and secured an entire continent, King Aeron Valdamar was currently being defeated by a button.
Kaia stood in the arched doorway of his dressing room, leaning against the frame with a cup of black coffee in her hand. She watched her husband with deep, highly amused affection.
Aeron was glaring down at his dark charcoal trousers. His right hand was heavily wrapped in thick white linen bandages, rendering it entirely useless. His left hand—while perfectly capable of holding a sword or steering a stallion—was proving wildly inadequate at fastening the intricate row of small horn buttons at his waist.
"I am going to burn these trousers," Aeron growled, abandoning his attempt and letting his hands drop to his sides. "And then I am going to execute the tailor who designed them."
