The waiting room was cold.
Not in the "oh no, my tiny baby toes are freezing" way—though, admittedly, my toes were a bit chilly—but in the "I think someone's about to faint from sheer intimidation" kind of cold.
I sat securely on Papa's lap—very used to this spot by now—his large hand resting firmly around my middle, holding me like a precious, dangerous artifact.
We were both staring at the same unfortunate souls across from us.
Grand Duke Regis. And next to him, him—Osric Valerius Everhart. He was practically trying to fold himself behind the Grand Duke's chair, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
I stared. No blinking. No drooling. Just an expressionless, eight-month-old glare. Papa was doing the exact same thing.
Honestly, it was funny how we matched. Same cold eyes. Same "I could end you" aura.
Except Papa's came with actual military power, and mine... well, mine came with excellent posture and chubby cheeks. But I like to think I radiate more danger, right?
