"Who is my guest?" the voice asked, its tone as cold as winter's breath.
Vera stiffened at the sound, the temperature in the courtyard seeming to drop with every syllable. The voice was unmistakable—low, commanding, and filled with a dark power that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Draven.
Modric instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting toward Vera. She could see the tension in his posture, the barely restrained anger that simmered beneath the surface. He was ready to fight, but Vera had been in enough situations to know that charging headfirst into a confrontation with Draven would be a grave mistake. Draven was not a man who needed to raise his voice or his hand to command fear. His very presence was enough to shatter the resolve of most men.
