CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

As soon as Genevieve excused herself from Beatrice and everyone she made her way to the smaller kitchen. It sat tucked away to one side of the house, far from everyone else. She poured a glass of tea from the refrigerator; the cool liquid was soothing as it went down. She tried to breathe and stared out the window at the setting sun and the herb garden.

It was too many people. Her fears had gone from Clint killing her or hurting her for messing up, to the blind terror of being surrounded by so many people—most of them too inquisitive . A throat cleared behind her and she jumped and dropped the glass in the sink, causing it to shatter.

Beatrice spun around, at first thinking it was Clint, but the man’s eyes were dead, and he didn’t have a scar. Raffalle . It was impossible to explain how Raffalle could look more frightening when he was so perfect, and Clint could seem safer with the wicked scar slicing down his neck . She gripped one of

the larger glass shards, ignoring the pain as