The King sat on the edge of his bed, he was in a state of undress, his golden hair unbound and falling over his shoulders. His amber eyes stared at nothing in particular. He hadn't seen Theresa since the morning, and truth be told, he hadn't gone looking for her either. He didn't care to.
The further she stayed away from him, the better. And her choosing not to sleep next to him that night only brought him relief.
He looked emotionless, but that was far from the truth. It wasn't that he didn't feel the sting of recent events. He did. Deeply. The ball, the letter, Riven's disappearance—it was like a knife had been lodged beneath his ribs, twisting each time he tried to breathe. But Theresa? She was the least of his concerns now.
He had once tolerated her because she was useful, politically necessary, and perhaps because he thought she knew her place. But after everything, the thought of facing her made his stomach twist with irritation.
