The private residence Alaric had arranged for the four wives of Edgar Farrow was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that made the ticking of the clock seem deafening.
Evanthe, Zoey, Sigrid, and Elin sat in the living room, their faces clouded with worry and frustration. Each of them bore the weight of their circumstances differently—anger, fear, sorrow, and defiance mingling in their expressions. The fine silk gowns they wore, forced on them by Alaric, felt more like chains than garments, a cruel reminder of their captivity and the twisted desires of their captor.
Sigrid broke the silence, her icy blue hair shimmering as she shook her head in frustration. "We can't keep letting him control us like this," she said, her voice low but firm. Her words carried the undertone of barely restrained fury. "But we can't act recklessly. That bastard knows exactly how to keep us in line. He'll use our children against us if we push too far."