Alaric stood rooted to the spot. His jaw was clenched so tightly the bone looked ready to snap.
He looked at the man wearing Julian's face—the man who had just dismantled an Empire for sport—and felt a wave of helpless, suffocating spite.
He couldn't torture a confession out of him. He couldn't strike him. Every bruise he left on this stranger would be a bruise his Julian would wake up with.
Julian would be the only one to suffer.
"Tell me this," Alaric finally spoke, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "Are you the reason Julian has that 'illness'?"
The figure in the chair went still. For a heartbeat, the mockery vanished. Then, he cackled, trying to replace the flicker of surprise just now.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
