“Thank you.”
He inclines his head slightly, then turns and disappears back through the servant corridor.
I stand there for a moment longer, staring at nothing.
Then I force myself to move.
There’s still work to finish. There’s always work to finish. I see him just before night fully settles.
At the far end of the garden, near the main path leading back to the manor.
I shouldn’t be looking.
But I do.
A servant is on their knees in front of him, head bowed so low their forehead nearly touches the stone.
Verr stands over them.
My breath catches and my throat goes dry. I long ago got used to the Dark Elves and their ethereal, unworldly beauty. But there’s something compelling about Verr. His silken shirt has a plunging v neckline that shows off his chiseled ebon chest and a smidge of hard abdominal knots. Tightly fitted trousers reveal every line of muscle in his powerful thighs.
He’s not technically a warrior caste, and yet he has the grace, the beauty, and the impending sense of violence of a panther. Eyes inscrutable and terrifying sear the world with their beauty and the threat of a painful, sudden death.
His tone is measured, his stance normal, and yet it all belies the raging storm inside. He’s not calm.
He’s…contained.
“What did you do?” his voice carries, low and sharp.
The servant trembles.
“I—I didn’t mean?—”
“That wasn’t the question.”
The words cut clean.
The servant’s shoulders shake.
“I dropped the tray, my lord. It was an accident, I swear?—”
Silence.
Heavy.
Then Verr moves.
Fast.
Too fast.
One second he’s standing still—the next his hand is at the servant’s throat, dragging them upward just enough that their feet scrape against the stone.
A sharp, choking sound tears from their mouth.
This is normal. Expected. I brace myself for the bloody end sure to follow.
His grip tightens.
