“You are not dying, Princess.” Royce held her long hair out of the way, kneeling beside her while she crouched in the snow and lost what little she had been able to eat this morn. He had been forced to halt Anteros in the middle of a mountain pass when she could ride no further. Steep, icy slopes surrounded them with walls of white, and clouds dulled the midday sunlight to gray, but a mild breeze made the air unseasonably warm. “I am,” she insisted weakly, her face a sickly shade of green as she huddled on his cloak, which he had spread across the ground for her. “I hate cassis. I hate it. I … I intend to order every drop of that foul drink banned from the realm!” Royce fought a pained smile, remembering the first time he had gotten drunk on cassis. “The feeling will wear off anon,” he assured her. “How soon?” “A day or so.” She groaned, hunching over again, retching. He remained by her side, offering what comfort be could. Her features drawn and strained, eyes bleary, Ciara was the very picture of misery and regret—the same two emotions that wracked him.
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