"He picked up the small painting of the frozen forest and examined it again. "I've had many lovers," he admitted. "Females of noble birth, warriors, princesses ..." Rage hit me, low and deep in the gut at the thought of them--rage at their titles, their undoubtedly good looks, at their closeness to him. "But they never understood. What it was like, what it is like, for me to care for my people, my lands. What scars are still there, what the bad days feel like." That wrathful jealousy faded away like morning dew as he smiled at my painting. "This reminds me of it." "Of what?" I breathed. He lowered the painting, looking right at me, right into me. "That I'm not alone." I didn't lock my bedroom door that night."