//CLARA//
The ink had barely dried on my reply to Oliver when the terrace doors burst open with a violence that sent the candle flame guttering.
I spun in my chair, pen still poised like a weapon, as Casimir stepped over the threshold.
He was a mess. His overcoat was rumpled, his hair disheveled by the wind, and his breathing was jagged. The moonlight carved sharp, predatory angles across his face, turning his eyes into something feral.
He hadn't bothered with the door, hadn't bothered with the stairs. He'd scaled the damn terrace like a thief in the night, all to avoid the indignity of knocking.
My pulse stuttered. I'd expected him to be in his study, drowning in expensive brandy and the suffocating weight of his own self-recrimination. Instead, here he was, his hands streaked with mortar dust from the climb.
