Derek was confused. "Liam?" he asked himself.
"Send him what he wants?" Derek thought, his mind racing. "What does he want? He wants the throne. He wants me dead. He wants the Thompson army disbanded."
His mind flashed to the festival in the palace. To the way Liam had looked at Marissa. To the way he had tried to claim her with a wreath. To the way he had invaded her space.
"He wants Marissa."
Derek's face hardened into a mask of stone. The satisfaction of Nigel's capture vanished, replaced by a cold, protective rage.
"You are dismissed," Derek said to the shadow. His voice was cold, sharp as a blade.
"Your Grace?"
"Leave me," Derek ordered. "Now."
The guard bowed quickly and exited the room, sensing the dangerous shift in the air, glad to be away from the coming storm.
Derek was alone.
He looked at the pretty velvet box sitting on his desk. It looked innocent. It looked like a box of chocolates or expensive jewelry. It sat there, mocking him.
