I’d been staying in his chambers since the day I’d visited the dungeon. I had expected the space to be lush and opulent, befitting a prince.
Rían’s bedroom was the opposite: Stark. Barren. Utilitarian.
I rolled off the mattress, catching myself on the corner post to keep from landing headfirst on the floor. “Why is your room so empty?”
“What do you call this?” He bounced on the end of the mattress, then reached for the buckle on his boots. When he finished, he’d return them to his closet next to at least four other identical pairs. “And that.” He gestured to the small leather-topped desk. “And those.”
Those. Meaning his three armoires.
I’d had a snoop the other morning. One for breeches. One for shirts and waistcoats. And one for boots. All his clothes had been pressed and hung. Most were black or white, but some were varying shades of blue.
“I mean decorations. Frilly bits. You don’t even have a canopy. Or a rug.”
“For what? Collecting dust?”
Right. The allergies.
Rían slipped out of his waistcoat and added it to the laundry basket dedicated to waistcoats. He had one of each of those for breeches, shirts, and miscellaneous bits as well.
He was so organized. So disciplined.
Then again, he didn’t have maids around to clean up after him. He had to do it himself.
I fumbled with my buttons until I got enough undone to get the blasted dress over my head. I left it on the floor, waiting to see how long it took him to shift it into my own laundry basket.
Ten seconds.
Now for the stay . . .
Eight seconds.
And my shift.
Only five.
Rían remained seated on the bed, the muscles in his arms flexing as he braced his hands on the edge of the mattress. So strong. So handsome. His eyes flashed. Sohungry.
I sauntered over to him, reveling in the way those glowing blue eyes tracked every movement. Every breath. Every pounding beat of my heart.
When I reached for him, he moved away. A fresh white shift appeared in his hands. “Cover your bits, drunk Aveen.”
“Drunk Aveen wants grumpy Rian to put her bits in his mouth.”
“What did you just say?” he choked, fingers digging into my hip bone.
“You. Heard. Me.”
His fingers contracted. “Feckin’ hell, woman. How much did you drink?”
“Just enough to feel invincible.” After four glasses, I’d lost count.
“You may be invincible, but I can assure you that I am not.” He draped the shift over my bare breasts. “Put something on. Please.” His voice broke on the last word.
He wanted me to put something on? All right. I collected his waistcoat from the basket and slipped my arms into the sleeves. “Better?”
His eyes burned bright as the snapdragon fire. “Worse.”
I made a show of drawing down the plain white quilt and slipping beneath. He joined me, staying as far on the other side of the bed as he could without falling off.