Derek stood like a statue carved from granite. His chest heaved with suppressed rage. His hand was clamped on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. He was ready to draw. He was ready to cut down anyone who dared to point a finger at his wife. The vein in his neck pulsed visibly.
Marissa reached out. Her hand, small and pale, landed on his tense forearm. She squeezed gently.
"Derek," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the shouting of the crowd.
She shook her head a little, her eyes locking onto his.
"Don't," she mouthed.
Her eyes were pleading. She wasn't pleading for herself; she was pleading for him. She knew that if he drew his sword, if he hurt a civilian in a rage, it would be the end. They would be painted as tyrants who killed commoners to hide their crimes. It was exactly what their enemies wanted.
