The little boy standing before me couldn't have been more than seven years old, but the look in his eyes was calculating, cold, and far too mature. Leo Valois studied me like a predator sizing up prey, and I fought the urge to squirm under his intense gaze.
"So you're the new tutor?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You don't look very smart."
I raised an eyebrow at him. "And you don't look very polite, but here we are."
Vincent Powell, who stood nearby watching our interaction, sucked in a sharp breath. Clearly, no one spoke to the Valois heir this way.
Leo's eyes widened before narrowing dangerously. "Do you know who my father is?"
"I'm aware," I replied calmly. "But right now, I'm not talking to your father. I'm talking to you."
A tense silence filled the room. We'd moved to what appeared to be a study room after my archery demonstration. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a large desk sat in the center with two chairs facing each other.
