Duchess Monique Flint studied Riley with a calm, discerning gaze, the kind that had unsettled countless nobles and generals alike.
She was well-versed in bravado—empty confidence was practically a currency among men of power—but this was different.
With Riley, there was no need for loud words or exaggerated gestures.
His presence alone spoke volumes.
This was no false bravado. Riley had proven himself time and time again.
Whether facing trained soldiers or hired killers lurking in the shadows, he always endured.
Numbers meant nothing to him. Ten men or a hundred, the result never changed.
His enemies had learned that lesson the hard way.
Assassins had been sent after him repeatedly, some renowned, others desperate enough to stake their lives on a slim chance at glory.
Yet every report that crossed Monique's desk told the same unbelievable story.
Riley moved as if he possessed countless unseen eyes, reacting to danger before it even fully revealed itself.
