"Forget I said that."
"No."
Dean narrowed his eyes at him over the edge of the pastry.
Arion sat across from him in the little café, perfectly composed, black coat still damp at the shoulders from the October rain, coffee cup in one hand, and the expression of a man pretending he had not just rearranged his entire internal schedule around the word collar.
Dean knew that expression.
He had seen it when Arion decided something was his problem to solve, own, protect, or ruin beautifully.
This was not good.
"You are thinking too loudly," Dean said, his purple eye narrowing.
"I am not."
"You are. I can hear money moving in your head."
Arion's mouth curved. "Money does not make sound."
"Yours does. It screams."
The old woman behind the counter was pretending not to listen. Badly.
Dean respected her for it.
Arion took another slow sip of coffee, far too calm for a man who had already become dangerous. "You said tasteful."
"I also said forget it."
