Veralie poked him in the side. “Is that Jaeros?” He didn’t reply, but she nodded, his silence answering for him. “Maybe we should just see what he wants.”

“No.”

His fathers had left his mate to survive on her own, not knowing if she was safe or taken care of, or even alive. They didn’t deserve a second of her gods damn time. No flimsy excuse they gave would ever be good enough.

She sighed, shoving against his chest until he shifted back. He let her roll out of bed, the sight of her in nothing but his tunic eliciting a rumble from his chest, reminding him of the previous night.

As much as he didn’t want to see his father, the idea of Veralie opening the door and pouring their interwoven scents into the hallway gave him immense pleasure.

Maybe he’d go one step farther and repeat last night, right up against the door his father wouldn’t stop fucking touching. If Jaren ignoring him wasn’t sending a clear message, that sure as fuck would. And it’d be even sweeter since he’d finally shaved the night before and would be able to feel her heat directly against his skin.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, dropping her eyes to his suddenly too-tight undershorts before shaking her head and walking toward the wash basin in the corner of their room.

He shifted to follow, intent on following through on his plan, but froze when she leaned over the basin. His heart picked up as he watched her splash water across her face, his eyes zeroing in on the droplets as they traveled down her skin.

He might have made a full-course meal out of her last night, lapping at her until tears poured down her face and she begged for mercy, but it was the reminder of why that stopped him in his tracks.

Why she’d needed the distraction. Why he’d so desperately needed to touch her and taste her. Why she’d been naked in the first place.

Frozen in the center of the room, he glared back and forth between her and the door, which was, yet again, being hit with a fist from the other side. If only he could rid himself of the image of her drowning as easily as he was about to dispel of his father.

Veralie turned back toward him, snatching up the new leggings he’d purchased for her. She worked her legs in, scowling down at the unfamiliar snug clothing before moving on to her socks and glancing sidelong at him.

“I can’t make you do anything, Jaren, but I, for one, want to hear what he has to say.”

“Thank you, Veralie,” came from the other side of the door.

Jaren crossed his arms. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, hastily tucking the front hem of his tunic into her leggings, leaving the back still hanging past the curve of her ass.

He lunged when she reached for her boots, blocking her path to the door. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”