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10

Devlin Schaefer, the Duke of Westcliff, wasn’t in a very good mood. He had a headache—not a new occurrence ever since he’d woken up on Calluvia to find the previous two months of his life gone from his memory—but this morning it was particularly aggravating. For one very specific reason.

“Your Grace, His Majesty is waiting for you.”

Devlin gave a clipped nod before walking toward the king’s office. He paused for a moment, reinforcing the bland, neutral expression on his face, and then entered the room.

The king wasn’t alone. Austin Cormack, the palace press officer, was there too. He bowed to Devlin, his gaze lowered.

King Stefan regarded Devlin with a deep frown, a hint of displeasure in his scent. “Nephew,” he said coldly.

Devlin briefly entertained the thought of calling the king Father. He almost laughed out loud.

“Your Majesty,” he said instead, as coldly.

&l

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