Back at his mansion, Dominic sat in his study, his frustration palpable. He was at his desk, absently drumming his fingers on the polished wood while Lena, one of the women in his clan, prattled on about herself. Her voice was a persistent hum in the background, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the night and the sight of Isabella’s wounded face.
Outside, the moon cast a silvery glow over the grounds, the shadows of the trees dancing in the breeze. Dominic found himself staring at the scene, his thoughts consumed by Isabella and the danger she had recklessly faced.
“Dominic,” Lena’s voice broke through his reverie, louder and more insistent this time. He turned sharply to face her, one eyebrow raised in irritation.
“Don’t you ever raise your voice at me, understand?”
