Three whiskeys was Tiberon's version of a warning shot.
Dex sat in his father's study, the chair still warm from whoever had vacated it before him. Hyran occupied the leather seat by the hearth, legs crossed, a glass balanced on his knee with the practiced indifference of a man who had survived enough of these briefings to know that the whiskey was the kindest part.
Tiberon poured the third glass and set it in front of Dex without ceremony.
"You've been unconscious for seven days," he began, his voice carrying the warmth of a glacier calving into the sea. "During that time, decisions were made in your absence."
Dex's jaw tightened. He drank.
"Gavriel has been checking on Serena throughout the week. On my order."
The glass stopped halfway to the table. Dex's fingers locked around it, and for one full second, the study was so quiet he could hear the fire breathing in the hearth.
Gavriel. Checking on Serena. For seven days.
On his father's order.
