The warlord studies his mate for a brief moment: the hardened set of her shoulders; chin tilted up just enough to exude confidence or a lack thereof. Pitted dark circles of exhaustion line the underneath of those dull brown eyes that watch him.
He sinks back into the pillow. “We will speak of it tomorrow.”
She sucks in a sharp whistling breath as though he had slapped her. “Hadrius-”
“Tomorrow.” The dangerous tilt to his tone is as brittle as glass, pricking at the centre of her chest. Rolling onto his side in finality, the warlord shuts his eyes and steadies his breathing, indifferent to the cold finger of dread that touches his heart.
She remains silent and shuffles.
Even with his eyes closed, Hadrius can almost envision the slight rush of red to her paling cheeks, the weak slump
