DAMON.
I was seated on one of the vintage couches adorning the drawing room. My mother sat on the other end of the room, one leg crossed over the other as she sipped daintily from her glass of wine. She carefully placed it on the marble coffee table before she finally faced me.
Fallon Blython was leaning against one of the wooden furniture by the wall and he leaned against it, a look of determination on his face. I wondered what he had up his sleeves.
"To what do I owe this beckoning?" I finally spoke after a long moment of silence. My mother had a brow.
"You aren't going to ask how your betrothed faring?" Her voice was clipped and carrying judgment.
I blinked and turned to look at her. "The last time I saw her was yesterday and she looked pretty much fine for someone who got attac
