Robert Blackwood knelt like a man praying to a god he no longer believed would listen.
His hands were flat against the marble, fingers twitching slightly, head bowed so low it looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. Not with reverence. Not with honor. With desperation. The kind that made your spine ache and your breath lock shallow in your throat. The kind that crawled from the soul when you knew—you fucked up something eternal.
Parker studied him in silence.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
He simply sat on the obsidian throne carved for a prince… like he wasn't the prince, but something worse. Something the title was too small for. One leg crossed, fingers draped lazily along the carved blackwood armrest, chin slightly tilted. But his eyes—his eyes were fucking still. Like ice holding back fire.
He looked at Robert.
Really looked at him.
And he couldn't help but wonder.
