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“My deepest apologies, Miss…”
“Petra.”
“Miss Petra. A beautiful name.” He offered a small smile.
“Thank you, my Lord.” I wanted to run away.
“You’re very welcome. I, too, lost someone very dear to me only a short time ago. Close to the time of your father’s death.” He gazed down at his hands, his fingers briefly wringing together. No betrothal ring. “A terrible fever. Took her within two days.”
“Apologies, my Lord.”
He stared at me silently. I didn’t know where to look, so I settled on my boots that were painfully tight on my feet. His voice was deep and warm, bewilderingly so. He turned to his guard and nodded, and I watched the armored man place an obscene amount of coin on the shopkeeper’s counter. “Take me to your home, Miss Petra.”
“What?” I snapped, shaking my head vigorously at the informality I had let slip in front of a fuckinglord. Good Saints. I quickly corrected myself, staring between the Lord and his guard at the counter. “Pardon?”
“I’d like to see where you live.” The look he gave me had some level of comfort in it. His eyes were sincere, thoughtful. He patiently awaited my response. Patrons walked past us from both directions, slowing down enough to scan the scene in front of them. My cheeks were on fire.
“It…it burned down, my Lord. My home is gone.” Gone.
He lifted his brows once again. “Well then, Miss Petra. Lead me to the rubble.”
My face contorted with confusion. Why would he want to see my house to begin with? Let alone a pile of rubble? I nodded. “This way.” The Lord and his guard trailed behind me. The uneasiness in my gut swelled.
“This is Tyrak,” he started, gesturing to his guard. “And I am Lord Evarius Castemont.”
