She recognized it intimately. She'd released her five husbands from their "meditation retreat" wearing the exact same expression of preserved dignity over deeply inconvenient discomfort.
And his 'eyes'.
Where Prince Larus looked like someone had dimmed his light, Estov looked like someone had squeezed him like a mango and left the husk standing.
Heena smiled sweetly.
"Oh my," she said pleasantly. "You're here. What a surprise."
Estov looked at her.
The hatred in his eyes was not subtle. It was not politely concealed. It was the naked, unfiltered, deeply personal hatred of a man who had been through something and had decided exactly who was responsible.
Heena maintained her smile.
Estov's jaw tightened. His gaze swept the corridor—servants, guards, a passing eunuch—and with visible, painful effort, he swallowed whatever he was about to say.
"Come with me," he said, voice dangerously quiet.
He grabbed her arm and steered her through the nearest door.
It was a storeroom.
