All seven members of the Council stared at him, their ancient, predatory eyes filled with a mixture of outrage and expectation. The air in the obsidian chamber was thick with it. They expected him to justify himself. To explain. To bend.
Caelan almost laughed.
He let the silence stretch, letting their indignation fester. He tilted his head, a gesture of mock contemplation, and met Lord Merin's furious gaze with an expression of profound, soul-crushing boredom.
"My connection to Miss Wren," Caelan began, his voice a low, resonant purr that seemed to make the very air vibrate, "is precisely that. Mine. It is a matter of House Virellion. And it is not now, nor will it ever be, a subject for public debate or the approval of this council."
He pushed himself away from the window, his movements fluid and deliberate, and began to walk slowly toward the head of the table, toward his own empty throne-like chair.
