The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and angry orange. The light was dying, casting long, stretching shadows across the gravel driveway of Carcel's manor.
The carriage rattled to a halt. The wheels crunched on the stones, a harsh sound in the quiet evening. The horses blew air from their noses, their breath visible in the cooling twilight air.
The door opened.
Carcel stepped down.
He did not wait for the footman to help him. He moved with a heavy, dangerous grace. His boots hit the ground with a solid, decisive thud.
He stood there for a moment, looking up at the stone façade of his house. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the oak trees that lined the drive. It tugged at the hem of his riding coat. Carcel didn't feel the cold. He felt only the heat of the anger that had been simmering in his gut ever since Ines had cried in his arms.
She was shaking, he thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. She was terrified.
