Damon's POV
Ever since Father had forced Damian and Catherine back under the same roof, the Voss breakfast room had taken on the temperature of a morgue.
The twenty four foot walnut table was polished to a mirror. The crystal chandelier caught every grain of salt on the linen. The servants stood against the wall with eyes lowered, and the only sound in the entire room was the small, deliberate scrape of silver against bone china. This morning, that sound set my teeth on edge.
I cut into the rare ribeye on my plate without looking up. The blade slid through the bloody cross section with the most disciplined whisper of steel, and from the corner of my eye I watched the absurd little theater playing out across from me.
Father sat at the head of the table, his silver brow drawn into the sh
