"My prince, I only... I was only trying to... to assist your wife," she stammered, trying to muster some semblance of confidence.
Alaric's expression didn't soften in the slightest. "Assist her?" he repeated, his tone laced with barely restrained disgust. "By humiliating her? By assaulting her in my absence?"
He drew in closer, and she could see every harsh line of his face, could feel the cold fury radiating off him.
She felt small, insignificant, like the mere maid she was, and yet she couldn't resist a final, desperate attempt.
"Forgive me, my prince," she whispered, lowering her gaze to appear demure. "I didn't mean to upset you. I only thought... perhaps you deserved someone who could... understand you."
He tilted his head, a humorless smile ghosting his lips as he observed her, and Priscilla's pulse quickened. She'd seen that look before, the detached amusement he wore when entertaining fools at court.
