The scent of charred roses still lingered in his chamber from when he had set it on fire on his wedding night. Even weeks after his return, the fire within him hadn't settled. Not in the hearth and certainly not in his veins.
King Casimir lay on a low divan near the open windows, where he could breathe in the fresh air and bask in the sunlight that streamed in pale and gold.
He barely moved except for the slow rise and fall of his chest as though even breathing too deeply might reopen some of the wounds that had been stitched together.
The silver bracelets still clung to his wrists, dull and tarnished as though they too had suffered at Arabella's hands. Cynthia knelt beside him her brow creased in anger.
Her fingers hovered above the cursed metal, shaking her head she whispered.
"She kept them on him every hour, even while he slept."
His aunt Miranda standing to the left side, nodded once.
"To suppress his fire."
