"Easy there, little sunbeam," a familiar, gravelly voice rumbled. "The war hasn't reached the hallways yet. No need to go charging into the stone like a panicked colt."
Brielle looked up, her face flushing a deep, heated pink. Zachren stood before her, his tall frame filling the narrow corridor. He was fully outfitted for the North, heavy leather bracers, a reinforced breastplate that caught the dim torchlight, and a cloak of dark grey wool lined with thick, protective fur. He looked like a man prepared for the end of the world.
He looked genuinely startled to see her there. For a man who made his living as the Duke's right hand man, his usual composure flickered for a noticeable second. His hands lingered on her arms just a moment too long, his grip firm and warm through the fabric of her dress, before he slowly stepped back.
