Kael froze when her voice cut through the air. Not with anger—no, anger would have been easier—but with a flicker of shock so raw that even the ever-composed lord found himself rooted to the spot. No one commanded him. Not his council, not his rivals, not even death itself when it came knocking. And yet Nerine's voice, trembling and reckless, had made him stop.
Slowly, he turned. His black eyes glimmered, not with fury but with something unreadable, like a man standing on the edge of a precipice.
The maids scattered like startled doves. Penelope, clever enough to read the sudden tension, seized Irene's hand and whispered quickly, "Leave them. Trust me—they'll be fine," before dragging her away.
That left only the two of them. Nerine swallowed, her steps slow and unsure, each one pulling her deeper into danger. She knew she had gone too far—shouting at him, daring to command him—but retreat was no longer possible.
When she finally reached him, her voice was smaller, softer.
