(Sean's Perspective)
"You were right. I was wrong," Dorian says, handing me a damp cloth as I carry Sandy inside and take a seat with her on the sofa. "I wish I'd listened to you. I'm sorry."
Snatching it out of his hand, I press it to her forehead and examine her décolletage. "Bright Arianrhod, she's so pale," I mutter, genuinely worried.
I know she didn't get much sleep—for the last few nights. On top of everything else going on, this discussion about Fae heat and having children was simply too much. I'm sure having two men pushing for it compounded the stressfulness of it, but frankly, I'm still surprised she fainted.
"Don't be sorry. Or—be sorry if you want—but learn too. I know you think I'm some kind of domineering ạsshole, but I know her." I fix Dorian with a pointed and possessive glare, but I can't stay angry seeing the agony of his concern etched in his face. "Maybe not the same way you do, but definitely a lot longer than you have."
