Trevor's private dining room was a world away from the tension they'd just left, a narrow, quiet space at the far end of the east wing, with shelves of old ledgers along the walls and a single lamp throwing a golden pool over the table. No flowers, no candelabras, no preening relatives, just plates already laid out by the staff, steam rising from simple dishes that smelled of rosemary and garlic.
Lucas dropped into his chair like he'd been shot and immediately reached for the bread. "I think I survived a firing squad."
Trevor shed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, rolling up his sleeves as he sat. His voice was quieter here, stripped of performance and venom. "You did better than survive."
"Is that your way of saying I didn't stab anyone?" Lucas tore the bread in half, tore it again, and stuffed a piece in his mouth before Trevor could answer.
