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At my tone, he pales further. “Your Grace-Sir.”
Snorting with cold mirth, I nod. “That’ll do.”
I fucking hate my title. Duke of KnightsGate. My father died last year, and the title landed on me as his only son. I’m twenty-fucking-one and aDuke.
Fuck. That.
The contempt is strong, but it isn’t something I get to choose.
So I live with it.
Much like I live with the scars I bear from being my father’s son. Both inside and out.
“Show me.”
North-West is quick to move forward to show me the display laid out on the far side of the chamber.
Nodding, I place my hands behind my back, flexing my shoulders, relishing the burn. “And you went far and wide from each other to get these?”
“Yes, Duke. We have the receipts.”
“Good,” I murmur, taking in the objects with a critical eye. “Good.”
Meeting North-West’s eyes, I slap my hand on his shoulder. He is my little protégé. The one who will take my place when we leave here at the end of the year. “How are you getting on in Project True North?”
“She trusts me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Enough that you can isolate her?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you need more time?” I inquire, almost daring him to ask for more.
His eyes tighten. “No. I do not. I can isolate her.”
“That’s better.” I move away from him,
Benedict steps forward, offering a sealed envelope. The wax crest of our order is prominent against the white paper, a sign that what lies within is meant for my eyes alone. I don’t reach out immediately. Instead, I let the moment hang, stretching the silence until it’s almost too tight to bear.
Even as my gaze lingers on Benedict, whose face betrays no emotion, I sense South-West’s anxiety like a living thing. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, careful not to look directly at me. He’s weak—or at least he appears to be. In this room, in our world, appearances can be deceiving, and weakness can be a ruse as easily as it can be truth.
Finally, I accept the envelope. My thumb brushes over the seal as I break it, noting the meticulous way it had been affixed.
I scan the contents quickly. “The time has come.” My voice echoes flatly around the stone walls of our sanctum.
“Yes, North,” Benedict replies.
“And security?”
Charles offers his report with a crisp confidence that pleases me. “Exterior, and interior.”
My mind races, plotting and planning steps ahead as I’ve been trained since childhood. “Good.” I fold the letter and slip it back into the envelope.
It’s time to remind them why they are here—why we all are here.
