Lucas lay curled beneath the silk throw, one leg bent awkwardly over a pillow, as if that made a difference. It didn't. Everything still ached.
His back. His thighs. His pride.
The pillow did nothing for that, either.
"I am not fragile," he muttered.
Windstone, seated precisely one meter away with a tablet in his lap and an expression made of granite, didn't glance up. "Of course not, Your Grace. You merely require strategic immobilization."
Lucas narrowed his eyes. "You sound like Trevor."
"Thank you," Windstone said flatly.
Lucas sighed and tried, heroically, to sit up straighter. He got about halfway there before his muscles made a noise of protest, and Windstone, the bastard, reached over to adjust the pillow behind him without comment.
"Is this revenge?" Lucas asked, peering at him. "For refusing to eat those awful vitamin bars?"
"No," Windstone said. "That was understandable. "This"—he gestured at Lucas's general state—"this is entirely self-inflicted."
