I turned to him, my pulse hammering against my ribs. "Someone just fired a gun, Duke. I need to—"
“It’s dangerous,” he cut me off. “Stay here.”
His sharp blue eyes locked onto mine, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t even look surprised.
That sent a chill down my spine.
Before I could demand an explanation, my father appeared beside us, his face dark with something unreadable. He barely acknowledged Duke before gripping my arm and pulling me aside, leading me toward the shadowed corner of the church.
“We need to talk,” he muttered under his breath.
I barely kept up with his pace. “Dad, what the hell is going on?”
He exhaled sharply, glancing toward the chaos outside before looking back at me. "Those people outside… they're not just protesters, Mi— Britney. They're grieving families. Farmers."
I frowned. "Farmers?"
"Their loved ones were killed," he said quietly. "And word on the streets is that Duke Trayson is responsible."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
My father didn’t respond. Instead, he let his words hang between us, heavy and suffocating.
Duke. A murderer.
It didn’t make sense.