The room went deathly still.
Even the fire seemed to hush, its crackle swallowed by the weight of her words.
Ravić's hand brushed against mine over my thighs, tightening its hold. A warning, or perhaps an anchor, I don't know. But I couldn't look away from her. My mother's gaze was level, assessing, as if she was dissecting me right then and there, in front of them all.
The King leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of satisfaction in those red eyes. But he said nothing. He didn't have to.
"You have a grandson," he said at last, almost idly. "His name is Lucien. He was born nearly just a year ago. And you didn't know this, because it was in the interest of his safety, that we kept his existence a secret."
The glass in her hand stilled midair. For a second, she didn't breathe. "I see," she murmured. Her tone was calm. Too calm. "And where is this...secret now?"
Ravić straightened. "Safe," he said, his voice clipped, final.
