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Summary
Though his hair is now more ash than blonde, he ‘hasn’t aged a day’ in the hundred thousand or so you’ve spent apart. (That he spent without you. How many did you spend without him? Did you count? Surely you did.)
Your eyes slip to his collarbone, pale skin and paler cloth. After whatever this is, will he fetch that stupid star? Did he wear it every day, is briefly removing it meant to flatter you?
“You’ll enjoy it,” he whispers. “If you don’t, the fault is mine.”
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The King of Darknight intends to lay with his queen, who only recently recalled she was a queen at all, and is very, VERY jealous about a certain trinket.