The manor halls were bustling—maids hurrying across the corridors, footmen arranging trunks, and muted whispers rolling through the polished stone like wind beneath a storm. Elowen Grantham stepped through the grand double doors of Ravenshade Manor, pausing at the threshold.
Everything smelled of travel—freshly pressed coats, the faint spice of packed bloodwine, leather saddlebags.
"Good morning, Tomas," she greeted softly, her voice barely louder than the wind curling through the entrance.
The ever-stoic Tomas turned to her with a nod.
"Miss Grantham."
But something flickered in his gaze. For a moment, he studied her face.
Her eyes were a touch duller today, small shadows beneath them like ink from a long night of tangled thoughts. She'd barely slept after her last encounter with the devil himself—Julian's words, his lips on her cheek, the scent of him in the sheets.
Tomas didn't comment.
He wasn't foolish.
Someone else upstairs would notice soon enough.
