ZEPHYRUS' POV.
The bass rolled through the club like a living pulse.
Golden light spilled across the dance floor below, bodies moving in heat and rhythm, unaware of what watched them from above.
Mortals pressed against mortals, laughing, sweating, chasing distraction.
Up in the VIP section, the noise dulled into something almost civilized.
Almost.
Zade lounged back on the velvet couch like a king bored of his own kingdom, one arm thrown across the backrest, expensive whiskey dangling lazily from his fingers.
He looked entirely at home.
In front of me sat a crystal glass of something amber and expensive.
Untouched.
Zade noticed, and tilted his head slightly, "You planning to stare at that drink all night," he asked, "or are you waiting for it to confess its sins first?"
A slow smile pulled at my mouth. "If it does confess, I'll make sure to credit you for inspiring it."
His lips twitched.
