The carriage rolled over the cobbled roads with surprising smoothness, yet each jolt made my heart leap, hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape. I sat upright, hands folded neatly in my lap, though the faint tremor betrayed my effort at composure. Across from me, Duke Reagan’s piercing green eyes tracked my every movement, steady, unflinching, and unnervingly perceptive. The carriage was quiet, yet the air seemed charged with him alone—a presence sharp, commanding, predatory, as though every inch of the space belonged to his scrutiny.
He looked… older, or perhaps just seasoned with experience. I guessed three hundred and ninety moons, though age was meaningless here. Confidence, authority, and survival marked him far more clearly than the lines of his face. Lean shoulders, a sha
