"Have you completely lost your mind?" King Theron stared at me, his expression shifting from disbelief to outrage. "You're suggesting Marquess Lucian Fairchild—one of the most well-connected noblemen in the kingdom—is abducting and murdering women?"
I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Yes."
We stood in his private study, the doors locked to ensure our conversation remained private. Theron paced the length of the ornate carpet, his royal demeanor slipping with each agitated step.
"Based on what evidence, Alaric? A hunch? Your personal dislike of the man?"
"Clara Beaumont sought out Cassian Vance for help," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite my growing frustration. I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and handed it to him. "She risked her life to pass this to him during our visit."
Theron unfolded the paper, his eyes narrowing as he read the desperate message. His shoulders sagged visibly.
