The heavy oak door swung inward with a low groan. Arin stepped into Caldan's private chambers, realizing immediately that this was more his training chamber than his personal room, which she had seen before. The air inside was thick, clinging to her skin with the scent of old leather, parchment, and something sharp, like a freshly honed blade.
Her gaze swept across the room. It was sparse, practical, not at all what she'd expected of a prince's dwelling. No gilded tapestries, no frivolous ornaments. Just dark wood, a massive writing desk piled with maps and scrolls, and a training dummy scarred with countless cuts.
Then she saw him.
Caldan stood by the open window, letting the cool night air ripple through the room. His back was to her, but the movement of his shoulders, broad and powerful, caught her eye. He wore no tunic. His back, a canvas of hard muscle and sinew, rippled under a faint sheen of sweat.
She froze. Her breath hitched.
