Lucas had meant to stay in bed.
Trevor had told him to rest, and for a while, he'd tried, but the distant thud of boots, the low hum of orders given and obeyed, had threaded through the quiet until it was impossible to ignore.
He padded out of the bedroom barefoot, the soft fabric of his pajama pants whispering against his skin. His ash-blond hair was a sleep-mussed tangle until he ran his fingers back through it, pushing it out of his face as he made his way down the hall.
By the time he reached the top of the grand staircase, the scene below had already unfolded into something that didn't need explanation. Trevor stood at the center of the receiving hall, the morning light catching on the gold at his wrists, his voice carrying just enough to slice through the air. Windstone's men moved like a tide around him, pulling the old Capital staff from their places, names being taken, orders barked in low, unshakable tones.
