Laziel Wynn stepped into the manor like it was a crime scene he'd been summoned to fix. He was draped in slate-gray robes trimmed in matte black silk, his gloves tight, his boots soundless. He carried no luggage nor sketchbook, just an air of doom and taste so refined it could cut through glass.
His eyes swept the sunroom like it might disappoint him.
It did.
"You're late," Elias said, because he couldn't help himself.
Laziel's green eyes moved to him like the sun deciding whether to bother shining.
"I'm early, darling," Laziel said, voice smooth and polished like lacquer. "You're late to self-awareness."
Victor coughed into his hand, utterly entertained by this man's audacity. "He's been under pressure."
"And it shows," Laziel replied, already walking past them. "The furniture is trying to compensate for his posture."
Elias opened his mouth to retort but closed it again when Laziel snapped his fingers.
