She was still looking at Julian, her thumb hooked into the collar of her knitted sweater.

Julian looked down at his leather shoes, then back at my daughter.

The coldness in his face seemed to fracture, just for a moment, revealing a deep, exhausted weariness.

“Let her stay for a minute,” he said.

His voice was barely a murmur, lacking the sharp authority he used with his men.

I froze, my hand hovering in the empty air between us.

Julian walked over to the sideboard and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass.

He did not drink it.

He just held the glass, watching the liquid catch the light.

“She doesn’t have fear in her,” he said, almost to himself.

“She is young,” I replied, my heart beating fast against my ribs. “She does not understand who you are.”

“No,” Julian said, turning to look at us. “It is more than that.”

He set the glass down on the polished wood with a soft, distinct clink.

He pulled a heavy wooden chair out from the dining table and sat down.