My father stands, pressing his hands to the desk, his eyes going black. “If I catch wind of that little weasel Etienne anywhere near my soldiers—“ “Don’t finish that thought,” I growl. “Do not threaten any of my friends.” Rion narrows his eyes before he rounds the desk to stand in front of me. He’s broader than I am, but a few inches shorter. He tugs the hem of his jacket, the only tell that he’s been thrown off by this conversation. “Friends,” he scoffs. “Friends are only a weakness. Surely you know that by now.” “Spoken like someone who’s never had a genuine one in his life.”
