Downstairs, Phei poured the wine.
Red. Dark. Something obscenely expensive from Melissa's private rack—he didn't glance at the label, didn't need to.
He filled the glass with the same casual authority he used to fill anything else that needed filling: steady hand, no spill, the deep crimson rising slow and thick like blood in a vein, swirling lazily against the crystal before settling with a soft, viscous shimmer.
Water for himself. Straight. No ice.
Cold enough to bite the back of his throat like frost.
He carried both glasses to the floor-to-ceiling window where Cassiopeia stood—her back still to him, midnight silk clinging to every lethal curve like it had been poured molten over her skin insteadof sewn.
The city lights danced generously and lovingly across the fabric in dark, liquid ripples, turning her ass into something sculpted from shadow and sin: full, high, the kind of heart-shaped perfection that begged to be spread, slapped, bitten.
