The heavy oak door of the back office creaked as it swung shut, sealing out the chaotic sounds of the Antique Market. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old paper and copper. Issac Monroe looked at the broken woman on the floor with a detachment that was more terrifying than overt anger. To him, she was no longer a threat—merely a source of data.
“To be perfectly honest,” Issac’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as a scalpel, “if it weren’t for the fact that you might possess the secrets of this Sanguine Stone, a bit player like you wouldn't even have the right to stand in my presence, let alone breathe the same air.”
Preston York—or Lord York, as the underworld had christened her—trembled on the floorboards. The realization of her own insignificance was a bitter pill,
