A thin layer of snow blanketed the garden, dusting the tops of the pine trees surrounding the Archduke's manor. Everything seemed to lose its color and blend into a white landscape, except for a distinct path leading up to the main entrance.
Restless as a raging bull, Arkin paced back and forth in front of the manor, his heavy footprints disrupting the snow, a chaotic storm tearing through him.
His wrist throbbed relentlessly, a cruel reminder of how an unarmed man was able to disarm him.
Arkin raked his hands through his hair with unrestrained force. His fingers tangled in the disheveled strands, gripping tightly as he tried to anchor his turbulent emotions. The sound of his own exasperated breaths filled the air as he cursed himself for allowing such a humiliation to occur in front of her, the person he held in the highest regard.
