It took exactly three bottles of the 'good' vintage to buy the silence of the Head Housekeeper.
Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway of the East Wing solar, clutching the glass bottles to her chest. She surveyed the shattered crystal inkwells, the scattered ledgers, and the faint scratch marks gouged into the mahogany wood of the desk. Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, but she clamped her mouth shut.
"You saw nothing, Mrs. Gable," Elian said. "A gust of wind destroyed the office. It was a tragedy of weather."
"A hurricane, Sir," Mrs. Gable agreed instantly, her eyes glued to the wine. "I shall have the staff replace the desk by noon."
"Excellent."
As she scurried away, Elian let out a long exhale. His entire body ached with that hollowed-out soreness that only came from surviving an Alpha's undivided attention. But beneath the exhaustion was a thrumming high.
He pulled up his interface.
