The silence that followed was terrifying.
The realization of what had happened didn't just spark anger; it shattered the last of the Duke's restraint.
Knowing that Julian had died for a moment, and nearly remained dead, was a burden Alaric had been carrying for three days, but hearing that it was deliberate—that his own brother had stood over the pit and watched the life drain out of him—was a betrayal that tasted like ash.
Duke Alaric's hand, still resting on the door latch, tightened until the wood groaned. He didn't speak immediately. He just stood there, his shoulders heaving, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow bursts. When he finally raised his head to look at Julian, the state he was in as he lay on the bed, his face was contorted in hard, silent fury.
