The Saintess trembled in Aiden's arms.
Even with the last shards of shattered glass settling on the banquet floor, even with the scent of smoke and cold wind still clinging to the air, her fear was the loudest thing in the room.
Not because she showed it—she didn't—but because he could feel it in the tiny, involuntary quivers in her breath. Soft. Controlled. But trembling.
The women were watching them.
Every single one.
The mansion lights flickered overhead, reacting to the lingering pressure of Aiden's unleashed power, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Catherine waited near the doors, arms crossed, spine straight, gaze sharp enough to make diamonds feel inferior. At his command she had locked down the mansion, sealing every window and door with high-tier magic barriers strong enough to withstand a small army.
"Done," she had answered with a soft smile that meant Don't worry… I won't let them take you.
The room was secure.
But the Saintess was not.
