This day was turning out to be one of the worst Vincent had had in a while.
What kind of trouble had Mervyn managed to land himself in that got Madam Beckett this furious?
Vincent opened his mouth, fully prepared to snap at Alfie—frustration already etched deep into his expression—but the sharp retort caught in his throat.
The doors to the Main Chamber opened with a hush.
And out walked the reason for all of his nightmares.
Ryley.
Both Vincent and Alfie stiffened on instinct. Alfie edged back a step and dipped his head low, almost as though he could disappear behind Vincent's shoulder.
Ryley, unfazed, arched a single brow, gaze flitting from Alfie's nervous stance to Vincent's barely veiled contempt.
Then, as though he had all the time in the world, he strolled toward them with that infuriating poise.
Draped across his lithe frame was the robe—the red dragon silk gifted by eastern nobles on the day Clyde rose as Alpha Sovereign.
And Ryley wore it like it was his birthright.
