The manor stood like a fortress against the winter storm, its towering spires veiled in mist, the black iron gates standing vigilant against the swirling snow. Within its walls, every hearth roared with fire, their golden glow casting flickering shadows along the mahogany-paneled corridors. The scent of burning cedar mingled with old books, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of cigar smoke—a signature of the man who ruled this house.
Lucian Devereux moved through the halls with deliberate steps, his long overcoat draped over his shoulders like a monarch’s cloak. The hush that followed him was not merely out of respect but out of deep, instinctive wariness. Servants bowed their heads as he passed, his presence a quiet storm they dared not disturb. His gloves—black leather, subtly embroidered—flexed against the smooth handle of his cane, though it was more weapon than walking aid.
His pale green eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned the corridors.
“Where is my child?” His voice was never raised, never needed to be. It carried weight without volume, command without force.
“They were seen near the east wing, my Lord,” a footman murmured, barely meeting his gaze.
Lucian turned, his coat sweeping behind him as he strode toward the east wing. The candlelit sconces cast long shadows, and beyond the tall windows, the snow fell in a relentless hush. He had searched the study, the music room, even the grand library where dust never dared to settle. But it was the east wing—quiet, secluded, always half-lit—that called to him now.
He found the door ajar, the cold creeping in through the open window. Lucian did not sigh—he never did—but there was a moment’s exhale, the closest thing to indulgence. A father’s concern, quiet but undeniable.