POV: Thorne
Something was wrong with him.
Thorne realized it the moment he reached for his third cup of wine at breakfast something he never did and caught himself smiling at nothing. His hand froze mid-reach. He set the goblet down carefully, the way a man sets down a weapon he doesn't remember picking up.
When did I start smiling at nothing?
He pushed back from the table and stood, rolling his shoulders. The morning light cut cold and sharp through the tall windows of his private dining room. He was a man who lived by discipline, by the rigid geometry of duty. He had ruled Frostholm for six years without ever once losing his footing. He knew who he was.
So why, for the past two days, did his thoughts keep drifting to Lady Seraphina's face the way a compass needle drifts to north?
