Julian watched her walk away.
The tailored slate-gray vest hugged the curve of her spine. Her hips swayed with a subtle, predatory grace that made his mouth go dry.
He stood rooted in the mud of the logistics courtyard, his pride hanging in tatters.
The stable master continued to chuckle in the background. The burly man muttered about thick leather and wild stallions, oblivious to the mental collapse of the Prince Consort standing beside him.
Julian ran a heavy hand down his face.
He needed a bath. More importantly, he needed a new strategy.
Because if Elara thought tonight was going to be a repeat of yesterday's clinical, one-sided devastation, she was sorely mistaken.
The royal baths were submerged in a thick, fragrant steam.
Julian sank into the scalding water. The heat seeped into his bruised muscles. His lower back offered a dull, rhythmic throb, a lingering ghost of her relentless pace from the night before.
He leaned his head against the slick marble edge.
