The satisfying thud of the arrow striking the bullseye did little to soothe the cold knot of anger in Dominic's gut. His plan to flush out the hidden assassins was sound, a good piece of strategy, but it did nothing to address the second cause of his frustration: the marriage itself. He drew another arrow.
Just as he was about to take aim, a young servant boy, no older than fifteen, came rushing onto the archery grounds, his clothes slightly askew, his face flushed with the effort of running. He skidded to a halt a respectful distance away, panting as he executed a wobbly bow.
"Your Royal Highness," the boy gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Her Majesty, the Queen Regent, requires your immediate presence in the West Wing Gardens."
Dominic did not lower his bow. His focus remained on the distant target, his voice sharp with annoyance. "What is happening in the garden that is so urgent it requires my personal attention? Has a prize rose bush withered?"
