“Sir. Are you certain?” Tristan asks.
Caleb glares at his Beta, who should know better to doubt him, especially in front of a guard and a slave.
Tristan, realizing his mistake, immediately lowers his head. “Apologies, My King. I spoke out of turn.”
“Do it again, and I’ll have you whipped like the rest,” Caleb snaps.
Harper looks confused and pathetic, bottom-lip trembling. Goosebumps raise all over her exposed skin.
“She’ll need different clothes,” Caleb adds, then scolds himself internally. What does he care what she wears? Let the world see her nakedness. Yet even as he thinks such dismissive thoughts, his hands curl into tight fists.
He may want to not care who sees her, but at the same time, he wants to claw out the eyes of anyone who dares look.
Disgusted by his own partiality
