Alaric kicked the door to his private dressing quarters open, bypassing the grand reception entirely. He marched straight to the plush velvet sofa inside, gently laying Elena down. "Elena… can you hear me?"
Her head lolls back against the cushions, her breathing shallow and ragged. Without wasting a second, Alaric knelt beside her, his fingers immediately flying to her wrist to check her thumping pulse.
The heavy oak door burst open again. Clara, Isabella, and Daniel rushed in, their faces pale with shock. Behind them stepped Alaric's grandfather, his cane thudding against the floor, a severe, stern expression hardening his features.
The old man took one look at Elena's deathly pale face and let out a cold, knowing huff. "The Vaughns," his grandfather muttered darkly. "They must have starved her on purpose. A desperate tactic to ensure she wouldn't have the strength to run away from the altar again."
