Countess Isplourrdacartha Estillo stands in the doorway, wearing a simple, fitted jumpsuit in browns and cream, long red braid flipped over her shoulder and a datapad in her hand.

She opens her mo--

He isn't wearing a tunic.

He isn't wearing a tunic and his chest and stomach and arms are rock-hard and heavily muscled, and she can see old scars dotted here and there--

Isplourrdacartha swallows. "My prince," she says, with the slightest of bows, her eyes firmly on his face. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to wake you."