Trevor left the archive room without a backward glance, moving with the unhurried composure of a man who had already decided exactly how this day was going to end, and for whom.
Every step toward his office was carefully planned, carrying the calm weight of someone whose patience had been tested one time too many. Vivienne's persistence had been an irritation before, a nuisance he could swat away while still entertaining himself with her audacity. But now, now it joined the same category as Christian's posturing and the clergy's quiet, sanctimonious meddling. That category had a very short lifespan.
Patience? Nonexistent.
Mercy? Unlikely.
The west wing's polished floors reflected the easy set of his shoulders, the kind of posture that would fool anyone into thinking he was in a good mood, unless they looked too closely at the eyes. Those, Windstone had once remarked, were where the temperature dropped.
