I turned to face him fully. The garden had never felt smaller.
Neither of us spoke. I simply stared, waiting for him to say something worth the mess he'd caused.
He stood there in the moon-washed silence, looking terribly out of place in all that finery, like a god who'd forgotten his own divinity.
He fidgeted, actually fidgeted, straightening the collar of his silver-trimmed attire, glancing at me, then away, then back again. The same hands that had commanded armies were now uncertain of what to do with themselves.
I raised a brow. "You're going to speak, or just stand there and suffocate in your own awkwardness?"
He gave a weak, nervous laugh. "I might melt under the heat of your glare if you're not careful your Majesty."
"Good," I said flatly. "That wouldn't be too much of a punishment, considering the stunt you pulled at the ball."
His smile faltered. The humor drained from his face, replaced by something softer. Guilt, or maybe something close to it.
