She watched as Reynard Crane stepped forward, posture composed, voice threaded with a wounded sort of elegance, speaking as though truth had personally betrayed him.
He denied everything.
Of course he did.
Priscilla's jaw clenched—just barely. Just enough that the muscles behind her ears began to ache. She kept her posture impeccable, her chin slightly lifted, her shoulders steady. But inside—
Inside, the anger was already stirring.
She had seen it.
She had been there.
The terrace. The bench. The arrogant tilt of Lyon Halcrest's chin. The smug amusement in Davien's half-lidded stare as he loomed too close to a girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen. And Reynard—
Reynard, with his honeyed words and cruel smile, watching it all with the satisfaction of a man stepping on something he considered filth.
Lucavion hadn't exaggerated. If anything, he had softened it.
