The long corridor leading to the Grand Duke's private study was usually a place of quiet, disciplined silence. The guards stood like statues, the torches flickered with a steady rhythm, and the heavy carpets muffled every footstep.
But tonight, the silence was shattered.
Marissa ran.
She wasn't running with the graceful, floating steps of a noblewoman in a ballroom. She was running with the desperate, heavy steps of a woman fleeing a fire. Her chest heaved with painful exertion. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps that tore at her throat. Her hair, usually pinned up in a style that could withstand a gale, was windblown and messy, strands escaping to stick to her flushed, sweating cheeks.
She ignored the startled looks of the guards as she passed them. She didn't wait to be announced. She didn't care about decorum or protocol. The memory of Prince Liam's cold, dead hand touching hers, the threat in his smooth voice, was still burning on her skin like a brand.
