The storm rolled in without warning.
One moment, Dwade’s plantation estate stood in humid stillness, the cicadas buzzing in the long grass. The next, clouds boiled across the horizon, black and furious, blotting out the moon. The air pressed heavy on the chest, suffocating, as though the night itself bent to his temper.
Dwade stood in the dining hall, goblet in hand, glaring into the shadows that pooled like ink at the edges of the room. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
“Roman.” He spat the name like poison.
He slammed the goblet down, wine sloshing across the white tablecloth. A servant rushed forward with a rag, trembling as she dabbed at the spill.
“Get out,” Dwade barked.
She dropped the rag and fled, skirts whispering across the floor.
Left alone, he gripped the goblet aga
