Draven's Point Of View
The crystal glass paused halfway to my lips, amber liquid swirling in a slow, hypnotic circle. I watched the whiskey catch the light, each rotation a small delay before I'd have to face whatever Lucian was about to say.
The phantom weight of Seraphina's lace pressed against my chest through my pocket, a tangible reminder of something pure in a world that had grown increasingly complicated, increasingly dark.
The air in my office suddenly felt oppressive, thick and stifling, crowded with ghosts I'd thought long buried beneath years of careful distance. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head toward Lucian, my eyes narrowing to slits.
"What did you just say?" The words emerged as a flat line, each syllable measured and cold, the kind of quiet that usually precedes a very loud explosion.
