The Rose Queen's Entrance

The air in the Duskthorn Bar was electric, charged by Grant’s mounting, incoherent fury. He stood there, his face an ugly mask of crimson, shaking with the kind of impotent rage that precedes a violent outburst. Just as his self-control threatened to splinter, a voice sliced through the heavy, liquor-soaked atmosphere—smooth, elegant, and laced with the lethal edge of a razor.

“You look troubled,