Some men play chess. Some men play people. Tiberon Drakenfell played both, simultaneously, and still had a hand free to pour his whiskey.
He hadn't portaled across continents to make friends. He portaled across continents because his son's mate was dying.
Tiberon let the silence stretch. Nightspire let it stretch further. Two bull-stubborn, bone-deep bastards were each waiting for the other to flinch first, and neither of them was going to flinch because flinching was for the fool-borns, the faint-hearted, the fantastically fucked, and for men with fewer goddamn years of practice.
Then Nightspire leaned forward like the silver-tongued, silk-spined son of a bitch he was.
"We're dancing around why you're here, Tiberon."
