The wind carried it again, soft and almost human, threaded with warm, expensive cologne and a faint sweetness of amber. There was no threat in it, not at first. Only a trace of memory disguised as civility.
And suddenly, Lucas wasn't standing on the Fitzgeralt balcony anymore.
He was in a quiet room bathed in the soft orange of firelight, the scent of aged leather and burnt sugar thick in the air. Shelves climbed the walls, filled with books that smelled of old paper and familiarity. Outside the tall windows, it was snowing heavily.
A fire crackled in the hearth. His tea had gone cold.
And across from him, Benedict sat in the armchair opposite, one ankle crossed over his knee, his posture a perfect picture of modern elegance, his tailored shirt rolled to the forearms, and his tie undone just enough to suggest exhaustion that wasn't real. His dark brown hair fell slightly over his forehead, framing eyes so vividly blue they seemed to reflect the snow behind him.
