“Rinka,” he said, his face sagging with relief. He sounded as though he hadn’t slept in ages. “Rinka, you’re all right. I’m here.” He kissed her wrists, her palms, her fingers, the soft skin beneath her eyes, her lips. And Rinka let him—until she registered the presence of the silent, green-cloaked King’s Guard at the door. She pushed Alban away with what strength she could gather. Her head still pounded, but her side and leg were stitched up neatly; her bed linens were fresh and free of blood. “You forget yourself, my king,” Rinka said tightly. “My guard is discreet and loyal.” He gathered her hands in his and continued to kiss them. “And you are alive and well, and kissing you helps reassure me of that.” She softened despite herself, despite the presence of the guards. She pressed Alban’s hands. “Tell me what happened.” Solemn, he settled beside her on the bed.
