AUTHORS POV

She jumped, dropping the rag. Her legs obeyed before her mind could, scampering back behind the counter. Her hands shook as she picked up another cloth and resumed wiping, her head bowed low. But her eyes—they stayed sharp, watching every movement from the corner of her vision.

The blood. The hair. The way the girl's form had twisted unnaturally under the fabric. She had been alive last night. Breathing. Crying. Pleading.

Tessa hated that she had to witness such gruesomeness.

She had heard it all.

She had done nothing.

Sir Ferdinand leaned in toward one of the men, speaking in raspy, too-low tones. The man nodded curtly and...