Chapter Thirty Four
The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, its pale light slicing through the tall arched windows of the guest quarters. Tom stepped into his room, his mind still lingering on the warmth of Caroline's breath against his neck, only to have his blood turn to ice. A figure was perched in the high-backed chair, draped in shadows so thick they seemed to swallow the moonlight.
Tom didn't hesitate. He dropped into a low battle stance, his muscles coiling like springs. His flesh, tempered by weeks of brutal training, felt like iron plates beneath his skin. I didn't expect the King to send an assassin so soon, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he scanned for a weapon.
Then, the shadow shifted. The light hit a familiar, scarred face, and the menacing pressure in the room vanished.
Tom let out a long, ragged sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping. "Why do you keep doing this, John?."
