The morning sun had barely crested the granite peaks of the Northwood range when a frantic knocking shattered the heavy, brooding silence of Malcolm's study. Marcus burst in, his usual composure frayed, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts that spoke of a long night spent in the cold.
Malcolm, already clad in one of the black turtlenecks Marcus had procured—its high collar scratching against the fresh, pulsing Mark on his neck—didn't even turn around. "If you're here to make another joke about my wardrobe, Marcus, I suggest you turn around and walk off the cliff yourself."
"Sir," Marcus panted, gripping the back of a chair. "It's the intern. Luca Vane. He's been found."
Malcolm stiffened. The mention of that name sent a jagged spike of irritation—and something else he refused to identify—through his chest. "Found? I didn't know he was lost."
