The basement of the Vernhardt was not a place intended for the living, nor was it a simple cellar for the storage of vintage wines or winter preserves. It was a relic of a darker age, a subterranean vault carved directly into the cold, weeping bedrock of the South. The air here was ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, thick with the scent of wet earth and dust.
Liera was not led down the winding stone stairs, she was dragged.
The Duke's grip on her upper arm was like a vice made of frozen iron. His fingers dug into her soft skin with a strength that defied his age and his usually refined stature. Every time Liera stumbled on the uneven steps, he jerked her upward with a violent, effortless motion that made her shoulder joint pop. She tried to find her footing, her silk slippers skidding on the damp moss that clung to the stone, but her father's pace was relentless.
