'What.'
Seleyena's hands stayed in her pockets. Nothing moved in her face. But her eyes—behind the glasses, tracking, recalculating—went just slightly wider before she brought them back under control.
'His drink too.'
She ran it back. Jake, bragging to Jenny about the drug he'd sourced from the lab. Jenny, asking whether he'd worn a condom or finished inside her. Jake's phrasing—'he's a rabbit in bed, a perverted bastard'—said about Cruxius like it was established fact. Like the outcome had been his fault, his choice, his nature.
But if the drug was in 'both' drinks—
'Oh.'
The math shifted.
She looked at Thalia. The slight cleavage above the neckline of the dress. The marks at the neck barely concealed by the fabric and sunglasses. The careful posture of someone using control as armor.
Then she looked at Cruxius again.
He was looking at her.
Not at Alvian. Not at Jake. Not at Jenny. At 'her.'
Watching for something. Reading whatever her face did next.
