Page 53 of Dark Elf Makes Five

I lean back in the chair, staring at the reports spread across my desk like pieces of a puzzle that refuse to form a complete picture. Would Selmyra truly be foolish enough to target a woman under my protection? Does she believe removing Kessara will somehow clear the path back to my favor?

The thought of those mercenaries laying hands on my sweet sends fury racing through my veins like molten steel. My jaw clenches as violent scenarios play through my mind—scenarios that end with Gareth the Blade learning exactly why I earned my reputation in the capital before retreating to these rural lands.

Thunder crashes overhead with such force that the windows rattle in their frames. The storm has arrived with a violence that turns roads to mud and sends sensible people scurrying for shelter. Rain begins pelting the glass in sheets so thick they blur the view of the gardens beyond.

Another rumble shakes the manor, this one lasting long enough to make the crystal decanter on my side table sing with vibration. The children's laughter echoes faintly from somewhere in the house, probably still playing their ridiculous games despite the weather turning hostile.

I gather the reports into a neat stack, my decision crystallizing with the same finality as thunder rolling across the valley. If Selmyra thinks she can threaten what belongs to me, she has gravely miscalculated the kind of man she's chosen as her enemy.

The storm outside pales in comparison to the one building behind my ribs.

A sharp rap against the heavy oak door cuts through the storm's violence. I glance up from the damning reports, my jaw still tight with barely contained fury.

"Enter."

Captain Draven pushes through the doorway, his dark uniform bearing droplets of rain despite the covered walkways connecting the various wings of the manor. His weathered face carries the kind of tension that makes seasoned soldiers reach for their weapons.

"My lord." He approaches the desk with measured steps, water still beading on his leather boots. "The suspicious activity around the estate roads has not diminished despite our increased patrols and fortifications."

I set down the report detailing Selmyra's hired killers, my grey eyes fixing on his grim expression. "Explain."

"Three separate sightings today of the same group of men. They're watching our patrol routes, timing our movements." Draven's scarred hands clasp behind his back in a parade rest that fails to hide his agitation. "They've made no attempt to approach the estate directly, but they're learning our defenses."

The uncomfortable wrongness in my gut twists deeper, like a blade turning between my ribs. These mercenaries are not merely gathering intelligence for a future assault—they're waiting for something specific. An opportunity.

"I believe they will attack Kessara the moment they are given a chance."

The words hang in the storm-charged air like a death sentence. Draven's expression hardens with the same protective instinct that has made him invaluable over the years.

"My lord, two of my best men shadow her movements at all times. Fendrin and Thale have never lost a charge under their protection." His voice carries absolute certainty. "And Kessara has no reason to leave the estate grounds. She's safe within these walls."

I shake my head, the wrongness spreading through my chest like poison. The reports scattered across my desk seem to pulse with hidden meaning, pieces of a puzzle that refuse to align properly in my mind.

"Something is wrong, Draven."

Lightning illuminates the study in stark white brilliance, followed immediately by thunder that shakes the very foundations of the manor. The storm outside mirrors the growing tempest in my thoughts.

The fury coursing through my veins crystallizes into deadly purpose. I lean forward, my hands pressing flat against the mahogany surface of my desk.

"I'm tired of waiting for them to make a move." The words emerge with the cold finality of a blade sliding from its sheath. "We move first. Find those mercenaries and eliminate them. Now."

Draven's scarred face splits into a grim smile that would terrify lesser men. The old soldier has been waiting for this order since the first reports arrived about suspicious strangers lurking near my lands.

"With pleasure, my lord. I'll take⁠—"

The heavy oak doors explode inward with such violence that they slam against the stone walls. Jorik stumbles through the doorway, his chest heaving as though he's sprinted the entire length of the manor. Rain drips from his dark hair and soaks through his simple tunic, leaving puddles on the fine carpet beneath his boots.

"Pardon... the intrusion... Lord Morvath..." Each word emerges between desperate gasps for air. His normally composed demeanor has shattered completely, replaced by the wild-eyed panic of a man who has witnessed something terrible. "But Kessara—I mean, Mistress is frantic..."

My blood is ice in my veins. The wrongness that has been gnawing at my gut suddenly transforms into something far more sinister—a certainty that makes my vision narrow to tunnel focus.

"The children..." Jorik's voice cracks like breaking glass. "They have not returned inside yet..."

The zagfer's legs give out beneath him, sending him sliding down the wall until he collapses against the stone, one hand clutching his chest while the other braces against the floor. His breathing comes in sharp, painful bursts that echo through the suddenly silent study.

The reports scattered across my desk seem to mock me with their useless intelligence. All those careful observations about Selmyra's hired killers watching Kessara's movements. All those assumptions about protecting the woman who shares my bed.

I surge to my feet with such force that my chair topples backward, crashing against the bookshelf behind me. Ancient volumes tumble to the floor, their leather bindings splitting open like wounded flesh.