The gaze from his blue eyes sent a chill through Elara, like a child caught sneaking out by their father.
Reynand crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaned against the archway wall of his quarters, and then walked toward Elara, who still held his gaze.
Despite the flicker of fear in her wavering pupils, she didn't avert her eyes, unlike four years ago when she would've shrunk away from him.
"I asked you, where—"
"I came from the kitchen, Your Grace, to get milk for Agatha," she replied, lifting the pitcher slightly.
He took a few steps closer, stretching his hand out to touch the side of the pitcher with the back of his fingers.
"Cold milk? For Agatha?" His forehead creased in irritation at her answer.
Elara flinched, swallowing nervously, but forced herself to appear relaxed, even though her heart was hammering in her chest.
"Yes. Agatha has sensitive skin, so I need to wash it with milk infused with herbs to moisturise it, Your Grace."
