The bathroom was absurdly spacious—because of course it was; nothing in this penthouse was less than obscenely luxurious—with a walk-in shower big enough for a small orgy, a soaking tub that could comfortably fit four adults(or one dragon mid-molt and his dignity), and enough counter space to land a small aircraft if the pilot was feeling optimistic.
He'd locked the door. Closed the blinds. Turned on the exhaust fan to (hopefully) muffle any involuntary opera of agony.
The scaled card sat on the counter like a black jewel waiting to bite.
Phei took a breath.
Then another.
You've survived worse, he told himself.
Have you though? another part of him asked, voice dripping skepticism. Have you really?
Shut up.
He thought about Valentina, unconscious in her bed sixty floors below, satisfied and exhausted and marked in ways she'd feel for days—little bruises shaped like his fingers, teeth marks on her throat, the kind of soreness that made her smile stupidly when she woke up alone.
