The morning sun was harsh and bright, but inside the Grand Duke's study, the air was heavy with the stale scent of burnt-down candles and sleepless anxiety.
Derek looked terrible. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a mess, his shirt rumpled. He hadn't slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Marissa being led away in shackles. He saw the doors of the judiciary carriage closing on her face.
He had spent the night pacing, writing letters, and issuing orders to his network of spies. He had sent men to the taverns to silence the rumors before they could reach the estate and upset his grandmother. He had sent riders to the borders. But the one thing he needed—news about his wife—had not come.
He drummed his fingers on the polished wood of his desk. Tap-tap-tap-tap. The sound was fast, erratic, betraying his inner turmoil.
"Where is he?" Derek muttered, looking at the clock. "It has been hours."
