The massive mahogany double doors, three meters tall, slammed open with a violent crash, rattling the walls and sending echoes ricocheting through the silent grand lobby of the Von Meier Mansion.
James Vilberry, who had only just finished the last of Matthias's errands an hour ago in preparation for the wedding, nearly jumped out of his skin at the thunderous impact. Panic seized him as he sprinted toward the source of the noise,and froze when he saw his master.
Matthias strode in, dragging with him the chill of the night and the stench of death. The Duke looked nothing like his usual immaculate self. His white shirt was wrinkled, the top buttons undone, and his expensive black coat was smeared with dust and splattered with something dark and metallic-smelling that was definitely not wine. But it wasn't his disheveled state that made James's breath hitch, it was Greta Albrecht Von Meier, limp in his arms.
