The knock on Zephyr's door did not tear his eyes away from the paper. The quill, aided by his hand, moved smoothly across the paper and his face was a mask of intense concentration.
As he had instructed, the door opened, and a figure entered. Zephyr set his quill down, placing the paper away with a deliberate movement, and his gaze welcomed Isolde into his study.
She swallowed a lump in her throat as the heavy door shut behind her, and she found the courage to take a few steps toward the large table that separated them.
She had forgotten how intimidating his aura was, how it seemed to press the very air from her lungs. All the confidence she had managed to build on her journey here had crumbled to dust.
Zephyr watched her, seeing right through her facade of bravery. He saw the tremble in her hands, the way she refused to meet his gaze. He decided instantly that he was not going to have this conversation with her if she was so crippled by fear.
