Victor let the last sip of wine linger on his tongue before setting the glass down. "You're being picky," he observed, the words smooth but carrying the same precision as if he'd said you're lying.
"I'm being cautious," Elias corrected, pushing one of the edible flowers to the far edge of his plate like it might try to reclaim the center. "You don't put green paste on a plate unless you're trying to hide something."
"It's basil purée," Victor said without looking. "I had them make it because I know you like basil. The meat is the cut you order whenever you think I'm not watching. And the wine," his gaze flicked to the glass by Elias's hand, "is from the same vineyard that bottled the one you kept staring at in my cellar."
Elias's fork hesitated over the purée but didn't touch it. "And yet," he said mildly, "I'm still alive."
