Julian descended the stairs to the lower levels, where the air was thick with the scent of roasting venison and rosemary. At the center of the frantic kitchen stood Nanny Martha. She was peeling apples with an almost frightening precision, her sharp eyes darting around to ensure the maids didn't miss a single beat of their work.
She still didn't like Julian. To her, he was an intruder who had shattered the stagnant, safe grief of the manor. But Martha was the only one who truly knew the "Jaguar" before he'd grown his claws.
She had been one of the few maids who had taken care of Alaric after his mother passed away.
He was just four back then.
She and a few other maids had raised him in the shadow of a father who didn't care and a world that wanted him broken just because he had his mother's color.
In her mind, the Duke's legendary stoicism wasn't a flaw—it was a masterpiece she had helped craft. Her methods were cold because the world she'd survived was colder.
