He let out a long, dramatic sigh, as if indulging some wild, unimportant fancy, and turned to drop into the high-backed chair by the window. He crossed one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the armrests, and propped his chin on his folded hands — looking every bit like a bored, all‑knowing god tolerating a trivial pastime.
"Fine," he said, tone flat and indulgent. "Hurry up then. Before I change my mind."
I bit back a grin and stepped quietly behind him. I unfolded the soft silk strip, and as I lifted it toward his eyes, he sighed again — deeper, louder, as if this was the greatest burden he'd ever had to bear. Still, he didn't pull away. I tied it gently but securely, smoothing the fabric over his sharp cheekbones and the line of his jaw, and stepped back, satisfied.
