Christian shook his head slowly. "So what now? We ruin her?"
"No," Damian said, his voice calm but absolute. "We redirect her."
Max gave him a sideways glance, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "That's a very imperial way to say exile her with accessories."
Damian didn't respond. Not directly. He moved toward the hearth with measured ease, his steps so quiet they might have been made by thought alone. The fire cast shifting light across the dark paneling, catching on the insignia of his ring—the wolf and flame gleaming like a silent warning.
"She'll marry into the Claymore house," he said.
Max froze.
His body didn't register it at first. He was halfway through lifting his teacup again, hand poised mid-air, when the words actually settled.
"I beg your finest pardon?" He said, his voice razor-sharp and brittle, like glass under strain.
