Seraphyne's smile did not waver. If anything, his cold fury seemed to nourish her, to make the violet in her eyes gleam with a brighter, more dangerous light. She uncoiled from the chaise longue with the fluid grace of a serpent, her velvet gown whispering against the floor as she moved toward him.
"But it's so much more fun to be in it," she purred, circling him slowly. The scent of her—night-blooming jasmine and something ancient, like dust from a sealed tomb—filled the air. "You hole yourself up in this mausoleum, pretending to be above it all. You play the stoic, grieving Duke, and for centuries, we have all played along. But now, a little flame has managed to get a spark past your walls, and the entire dreary castle is beginning to smolder. Do you truly expect me to sit back and miss the spectacle?"
