Caelan stood in the opulent, suffocating foyer of House Blackwythe, a predator caught in a gilded trap. Valestra's triumphant smile was the bait, the bars, and the lock, all in one. She had him. She had used his past, his secrets, and his newfound, inexplicable obsession with a seamstress to corner him completely.
He could feel the eyes of her parents on him—her father's weary resignation, her mother's rapturous glee. They were witnesses to his humiliation, a humiliation Valestra had orchestrated with a finesse he was loath to admire.
For a long, silent moment, he simply stared at her, letting the cold fury build within him until it was a solid core of ice in his chest. He would not give her the satisfaction of a visible reaction. He would not let her see the raging storm behind his eyes, the violent impulse to tear down the very walls of her gaudy, pretentious house.
He would give her the mask. The cold, untouchable, unreadable mask of the Iron Duke.
