Elian stood in the Royal Dressing Room, holding a navy tunic.
It felt like the first day of school, if school involved dressing the man you had slept with for a week who now thought you were a stranger.
"Valet," Cassian said, standing by the mirror. "You are staring."
"I am assessing the fabric, Sire," Elian lied, stepping forward. "Wool. Practical. Good for a Prince who just declared a cold war on his ex-fiancée."
Cassian grunted. "It is not a cold war. It is a diplomatic recalibration."
"Is that what we're calling 'She threatened to invade us'?"
Cassian turned. He looked at Elian. The familiarity in his gaze was gone, replaced by the cool, assessing look of a master judging a servant.
"You have a sharp tongue today, Elian."
"I missed my coffee," Elian said, holding up the tunic. "Arms up."
Cassian raised his arms. Elian slid the tunic on. His hands brushed Cassian's sides.
Flash.
