"...someone shall come… to take my life."
Julian held his breath, waiting for the skepticism, the confusion, or the gentle dismissal of a man who thought his lover was simply hallucinating from fever and stress.
Instead, Alaric's face hardened into a mask of pure, lethal granite. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second. The Duke didn't laugh; he didn't even blink. He went perfectly still, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows of the room.
"An assassin," Alaric muttered, his voice dropping into a low, predatory growl.
"You... you believe me?" Julian whispered, stunned by the lack of hesitation.
"Why didn't I think of that possibility?" Alaric said, more to himself than to Julian. He stood up slowly, his movements fluid and silent like a wolf catching a scent. "The Marquis is a coward, but he is a calculated one. If you die here, there is a perfect way to make all his false claims true. It's the perfect move."
