The call from Hendrik came after midnight.
The villa had gone quiet around them. Beyond the windows, the sea was almost black, broken only by white foam where waves struck the rocks below. The resort lights climbed the opposite hillside in scattered gold points, distant enough that the private terrace remained dark.
Dean had abandoned Snake Island's map on the low table and curled into the corner of the sofa beneath a thin blanket. His ivory sweater had been replaced by one of Arion's black shirts, the sleeves folded several times around his wrists. Boreas slept near the fireplace, occasionally twitching one paw against the rug.
Arion was still dressed in dark trousers and the charcoal knit shirt he had worn to dinner when his secure tablet vibrated.
One glance at the source was enough for him to sit straighter.
"Hendrik."
Dean immediately pushed himself upright.
Arion accepted the call.
