Gregory's POV

Fire crackled from the hearth, shadows dancing against the bookshelves in the study. Gregory

sat in his chair, his cane resting against the arm of the chair, a glass of his favourite wine

cradled in his hand.

He was old, yes. But age had not dulled him, rather it had sharpened him, whittled away the

softness until he remained cold and calculative.

His son thought himself clever. Thought himself immune, but Gregory knew better.

He had spent a lifetime molding Damian into a cold, ...