By the time they reached the Numen manor, Elias had calmed down.
Mostly.
Partially.
Well… he was full of garlic bread and not actively plotting a coup, which was the best anyone could hope for at five and a half months pregnant and emotionally scorched by an afternoon of battling Ego Numen's personal brand of affection-slash-dictatorship.
Now, sprawled across the long velvet couch in the east sunroom, Elias rested one arm across his stomach and narrowed his eyes at the ceiling like it had personally offended him. Again.
Victor was seated beside him. Casually, of course. One ankle crossed over his knee, forearms resting along the arms of the chair like he was posing for a silent film about tailored vengeance. His white t-shirt was soft and slightly wrinkled, the sleeves hugging his biceps just enough to be illegal, and his hair was still damp from the shower.
Which was rude. Unfair. Possibly a crime.
He wasn't even trying to look good.
He just was.
