Emery was twenty now. The soft, rounded edges of her girlhood had been carved away by the relentless grind of palace life, leaving behind something sharper and more resilient. Her reflection in the polished mirrors of the Prince's chambers was that of a stranger—a woman with eyes like frozen lakes and a mouth that had forgotten how to curve into a smile.
Prince Alaric's possessiveness had grown into something bloated and suffocating. He no longer saw her as a servant; he saw her as a rare piece of porcelain that only he was allowed to handle.
"The air is stagnant today," Alaric said, draped in a chair of carved bone. "Walk with me to the gardens, Songbird."
