To say Quinn's mood was foul would be an understatement of epic proportions. He was livid.
The morning after Cecilia's birthday banquet, his wife, Adeline, had approached him with an unusual amount of affection. Quinn, ever the dutiful husband, assumed she was simply in a good mood and had happily taken advantage of the rare moment of tenderness.
It wasn't until he reactivated his mana that the truth hit him like a war hammer.
Quinn had deactivated his mana for the night—a habit born of ensuring a peaceful rest, undisturbed by the overwhelming flow of information his heightened senses provided. Only imminent danger would have pierced the veil of calm he allowed himself.
So when he reactivated his senses that morning, the first thing he registered was Arthur Nightingale's presence far too close to his daughter for comfort. Specifically, in her room.
