He walked naked down the hallway.
Not with the self-conscious deliberateness of someone making a point. Just — walked.
The way a man walks through his own kitchen in the morning, the way you move through space when you've stopped organizing your behavior around what spaces expect from you.
His shoulders rolled with each stride, unhurried, one hand grazing the wallpaper as he turned the corner past the portrait of some dead Westing ancestor who looked profoundly unprepared for Viktor's existence.
Behind him, Rihana followed.
Her bare feet on the stone floor. Her breasts — completely free, completely present, the full, milk-warm weight of them swaying with each step in that deep, heavy rhythm that had absolutely nothing to do with performance and everything to do with architecture — moved in soft counterpoint to her hips.
She was watching the back of his head.
Specifically the particular set of his jaw that meant he was thinking about something he hadn't said yet.
"Master."
