The Duke's eyes sharpened slightly as he observed Michael's subtle fidget, the glance that lingered too long on the floor.
With a faint tilt of the head, he spoke again—calmly, but with unmistakable weight.
"You seem uncomfortable, Mic Nor. Tell me—do you have an issue with the idea of being with my daughter?"
Michael froze.
The question was asked without malice, almost gently, but there was steel hidden behind the soft voice—curiosity sharpened by authority.
Michael's instincts told him not to say anything foolish. He couldn't exactly reply with what he was thinking.
That he didn't want to be tangled in anything remotely close to marriage right now.
He hesitated, trying to find a polite deflection, but before he could speak, the tall doors to the hall creaked open once more.
A light patter of footsteps echoed as someone stepped in.
Michael turned.
The first thing he saw was sunlight catching in hair the color of spun gold.
