Greyson’s POV
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed midnight, the deep, resonant toll echoing through the cavernous hall like a funeral dirge.
I stood by the fireplace, staring into the dying embers, my hands clasped behind my back in a posture of perfect, rigid discipline. It was a lie, of course, a carefully constructed facade designed to hide the chaos churning in my gut. But it was a lie I had perfected over three centuries.
To my left, Ace was pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. The rhythmic click-clack of his boots on the hardwood was grating on my last nerve, chipping away at my composure.
“Will you sit down?” I asked, keeping my voice low and devoid of the irritation I felt. “You’re wearing a groove in the floor.”
“I can’t sit,” Ace snapped, running a hand through his
