Arlan was in his study even though it was late in the night. He had dismissed his servants and was sitting in his chair while staring at the moonless sky outside the window. He was still distressed with what happened with Oriana and could not come to calm his mind.
'Is she sleeping well?'
Their chambers were on the same floor. Earlier, his senses caught her sharp gasps of pain whenever she moved the wrong way. When she mumbled it hurt, he could imagine the scene of the pot-bellied count kicking her small kneeling form.
Perhaps because it was his own imagination, Arlan tried to visualize her pretty face scrunching in pain, despite her unyielding gaze. Oriana was a consistent troublemaker, the type of person to offend a noble for a pregnant deer and the kind of busybody who would help out a stranger with a sick daughter from being scammed.
If Arlan came to that chamber a second too late, the sword held by Count Milton would have…
