Phei hadn't meant to kiss Catrina. Not yet and here in this gilded corridor where the boutique's distant murmur rose like a forgotten hymn and the night clawed coldly at the glass, pressing its black fingers against the fragile warmth they had stolen for themselves.
Not here, with the rest of his crew scattered like careless shadows across the building, doing whatever mortals do when they are not standing six inches from a girl whose entire body thrummed against his like a tuning fork struck by some cruel, laughing god.
He'd meant to say something, something smooth, probably; clever and warm and layered with the kind of dual-meaning that let a woman know she was wanted without making her feel hunted —a velvet-wrapped phrase laced with that practiced duality, the kind that promised sin without ever naming the devil.
He had the words somewhere—queued up, half-formed and ready to deploy.
But fate, that sly bastard with its crooked grin, had other plans; it always did, didn't it?
