The heavy oak door swung open with a slow, deliberate creak that sounded like a death knell in the quiet kitchen. Evangeline squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles turning stark white around the wooden handle of her scrub brush. Her breathing hitched, a tiny, terrified gasp catching in her throat. She stayed frozen on her hands and knees, her head tucked so low that her chin pressed against her collarbone. She braced herself, waiting for the harsh shout, the heavy strike, or the cold disgust she was so accustomed to receiving back at the Ironwood packhouse. But the heavy, booming footsteps of a warrior didn't follow. Instead, there was a soft rustle of linen, followed by the light, brisk patter of sensible leather shoes. The footsteps stopped abruptly. A sharp, collective intake of air pierced the silence. "Merciful Mother," a woman’s voice whispered. It wasn't the voice of a young, arrogant warrior, nor was it the sharp, venomous tone of Victoria. It belonged to an older woman, ric
Last Updated : 2026-06-11 Read more