In the drawing room, Leroy bowed his head. His fists dug into the carved oak of his armrest until the wood groaned. His eyes reddened, his jaw twitched, the cords of his neck strained as though trying to hold back a scream.
How could she doubt me?
Leroy rose to his feet so fast the chair scraped the floor, his fists clenched so tightly the knuckles blanched white. He needed to ask her that question to her face.
But Aldric was quicker. He caught the flicker of devastation in the prince's expression, the kind that, if unleashed now, would wound the Princess more than any enemy blade.
"You're saying Zara is not your mistress?" Aldric asked, his voice calm, deliberate.
Leroy's green eyes snapped toward him, blazing. "If you need to ask this question, then you should already know the answer!" His rage was no longer just rage; it trembled with hurt, with a disbelief that cut deeper than fury.
