The heavy obsidian doors of the King's Nest didn't just close; they sealed with a finality that echoed in Ren's bones.
Syris didn't stop there. He slid a massive stone bar across the frame, locking them in.
"There," Syris announced, turning around. His sheer silk wrap swished around his ankles. "Now, no one enters. And no one leaves. Especially not small, red-headed mammals with a history of fleeing."
He walked toward the bed.
Ren backed up until her legs hit the pile of black furs. She held her frying pan up.
"Syris," Ren warned. "I am warning you. I am armed and I am cranky. I have pepper spray residue on my hands and I'm not afraid to rub your eyes."
"You would not," Syris purred, stalking closer. "You spent an hour oiling these eyes. You are invested in my maintenance."
He reached out and gently pushed the frying pan down.
"Drop the iron, Little Chef. It is heavy. And useless against me."
Ren let the pan drop onto the furs. "Fine. But I'm keeping the coat on."
