Harcourt riffled through the parchment on the war table in his tent.
“Where is it?” He slammed the documents down and glared at Mac.
Mac kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t the first time Harcourt had lost his temper, and Mac doubted it would be the last. He’d left a trail of mutilated bodies, strung up to trees, of the soldiers who’d somehow failed at their duties, and now that they were camped at the northern mouth of the pass of Gentle Crossings his mania had grown. Mac had no idea how Harcourt had come to this. It was hard to believe the pensive middle son, named after his father, would have murdered half his family for his ambitions. But he had.
According to all reports, Adelicia, Gregor, and Wyndham were dead. Killed by their guard. Everything Mac had lived for–and suffered for–was gone. In the blink of an eye. And he hadn’t said what he’d needed to say.
Mac swallowed at the lump in his throat. What he really wanted was a drink. Screw being sober.