Alfred stood by the mansion gates, watching as Lord Rhaegal's carriage rolled out of sight. Only when the dust had settled did he turn and head back inside, his footsteps heavy on the polished floors.
In went to the kitchen, he ladled soup into a bowl, his motions mechanical, his thoughts elsewhere. He filled a glass with blood, set both on a tray, and carried it upstairs.
Reaching Elias's door, he paused just briefly before pushing it open.
Elias, who was lying peacefullydown, looked up in surprise. "Alfred," he said, trying to sit up.
Without a word, Alfred strode in, set the tray on a table, and helped him sit. He kept his eyes averted, focusing on the task at hand.
Once Elias was propped up, Alfred set the tray before him. "Eat. You need to gain back your the strength," he said, gaze fixed on the bowl.
Elias studied him — the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes refused to meet his. So much anger, Elias thought. "Won't even spare me a glance. Do you hate me that much?"
