Maximilian straightened slightly, as though settling into the weight of the moment rather than shrinking from it.
He had expected this question.
Any father worth his place would ask it.
Because at the heart of it, beneath age and time and propriety, there was something far more dangerous to consider—the simple, undeniable truth that a man was capable of violence. And all it took was a moment. A lapse. A loss of control. That was all it would take to harm someone who trusted him.
But men like James Preston understood something deeper than that.
There were different kinds of violence.
There was the kind born from weakness—when a man lost control, lashed out, and called it instinct. That kind was unforgivable. That kind destroyed homes, broke trust, and left behind damage that could never truly be undone.
