"Your Highness?"
The voice was faint, muffled as if traveling through a thick wall of water. In his mind, Yerel was still standing under the damp glass roof of the conservatory, staring into a pair of blue eyes that contained absolutely nothing for him.
No lingering hurt. No hidden resentment. Not even a shred of lingering malice. Just a blank stare and zero reason to keep talking.
Respecting my fiancé. Respecting my mate.
Yerel almost wanted to laugh out loud at the memory. Cherion playing the part of a devoted, principled partner to someone else was the most absurd, deeply offensive piece of theater Yerel had ever witnessed. It was a joke. An absurd, desperate little lie Cherion was telling himself to pretend he was happy rotting away in the frozen North with a man who looked at the world like he owned it.
"Prince Yerel?"
