I can't tell if I should be ashamed of wanting to hold you on this day, or grateful that, despite what happened before now, it somehow brought me to you.

Where are you going?”
He looked over his shoulder at me. “If I stay, you won’t get any sleep.”
“Stay,” I said. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” Lie—such an outright lie.
He gave me a half smile that told me he knew it, too, but nestled down, tugging me into his arms. I wrapped an arm around his waist and rested my head in the hollow of his shoulder.
He idly stroked my hair. I didn’t want to sleep—didn’t want to lose a minute with him—but an immense exhaustion was pulling me away from consciousness, until all I knew was the touch of his fingers in my hair and the sounds of his breathing.

Unleashing a cry that set the world trembling, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Consort of the Queen of Terrasen, began the hunt to find his wife.

You said you didn’t care what I thought. Or what I did. Or if I died, if I’m not mistaken."

“I lied! And you know I lied, you stupid bastard!

I'm not married,” he said softly, “because I can't stomach the idea of marrying a woman inferior to me in mind and spirit. It would mean the death of my soul.

You're not moving your body the correct way, Here, just let me show you."
Though it was the oldest and most shameless trick in the book, he reached over her and put his hand on top of the one that gripped the cure. He then positioned the fingers of her other hand on the wood before lightly gripping her wrist. To Dorian's dismay, his face became warm.
His eyes shifted to her, and, to his relief, he found that she was as red as he, if not more so.