"She won't hate me for undressing her," he said, after a moment's consideration, his voice carrying the careful, measured quality of someone constructing a reasonable justification under less than ideal circumstances.
He paused.
"...Right?"
The room offered no response.
He sighed through his nose — not unhappily — and dragged a hand slowly through his hair.
Below, somewhere outside the house, a car engine turned over. Jake Harlowe, apparently unable to commit to leaving, finally committing to leaving.
Cruxius did not notice this.
He was looking at Jenny, still and flushed and thoroughly unconscious, her pyjama top rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breathing, the lamplight doing generous work with the curve of her—
He cleared his throat again.
"...At the very least," he said, with the quiet resignation of a man who had decided, "she'll have questions when she wakes up."
