The carriage was a tomb. Every clatter of the wheels on the cobblestones was a hammer blow against my composure.
I stared at my hands, trembling in my lap. One was stained with the brute's blood, a dark, sticky patch that had soaked through the coarse fabric of my sleeve. A brand, and a mark of my failure.
When the carriage stopped, the door was opened by the same impassive guard. He led me through a series of stark, empty corridors, our footsteps echoing. This was the functional, skeletal underbelly of the manor, a place for business, not pleasure. We stopped outside a door I recognized. Darius's private study.
"The Duke is waiting," the guard said, his voice flat.
I stepped inside. Darius stood by the fireplace, one hand on the mantel, staring into the flames. He didn't turn. His presence filled the room, a palpable wave of cold fury that made the air feel thick and heavy.
"Close the door," he said, his voice a low growl.
