A stem from a rose will be well versed in the art of the thorn.
"Duchess! Duchess!"
Aria was in the old brewing shed, one hand resting on a cask, speaking quietly with Garren about when a servant came pelting across the yard, red-faced and gasping.
"What is it?"
"My Lady—"
"Speak for fuck's sake!"
"My lady—Prince Leander—he's up—he's tearing the bandages off—he says he's leaving for the capital now—"
Aria was already running.
She took the stairs two at a time, burst into the guest chamber, and found Leander standing in the middle of the room, coat half-on, ripping the last of the bulky linen from his shoulder with his good hand. Fresh blood spotted the remaining bindings.
"Have you lost your mind?" she snapped.
"Hey! Hey!"
Aria moved to block his path, breathing hard from running up the stairs.
"Move."
Leander's voice came clipped and cold.
If he meant to, he'd push her away in a breath.
Aria glared at him.
