White fabric caught the dim light as Benedict adjusted his sapphire cuffs, the pristine line of his suit contrasting the shadowed room. He had no use for priestly robes, no interest in appearing sanctified. Clean lines, sharp tailoring, and a face that could pass for polished nobility. Blue eyes that saw too much. Hands that did not tremble.
Christian Velloran trembled.
He was pinned against the wall, one hand clawing at Benedict's grip at his throat, the other uselessly scraping at plaster as his breath fractured into shallow, panicked gasps. His silver eyes burned with the indignity of it, but they were glazing over now, the pressure at his windpipe making every second longer than the last.
"Quiet," Benedict murmured, his voice smooth and utterly unhurried. "Your lungs don't matter to me. Your thoughts do."
