His fingers remained caught in her hair, trembling.
"Why, Olivia? Why would you do this?"
His voice broke on the question, and for a fleeting second, the storm of his anger collapsed into something far worse: disappointment. Grief. Betrayal.
Olivia, who was often the coldest soul in any room, suddenly found herself unable to breathe under the gaze of a man who looked at her not as a wife, nor an enemy, but as a stranger.
A flicker of confusion crossed her face. She took a sharp step back, brushing his hand away from her arm. Her voice was steady, but laced with a sharp edge of indignation.
"Mathias, what are you talking about? You drag me from my bed at dawn, hurling accusations I haven't even been told, and expect a confession? To what, exactly?"
But instead of answering, He lunged forward. He seized her wrist in a grip of iron.
A sharp, agonizing hiss escaped Olivia's teeth, and for a split second, her vision went white.
