The private garage of the Northwood Lodge was a cavern of shadows and polished chrome, smelling of expensive tires and the crisp, lingering scent of alpine frost. Malcolm Ford's custom black vehicle sat idling, its engine a low, predatory hum that vibrated through the concrete floor.
Luca Vane walked toward the vehicle with a cautious, swaying step, the silk of his tiny shorts shimmering under the overhead fluorescent lights. When they reached the car, Luca moved toward the rear passenger door, his hand reaching for the handle with a "shy," submissive posture. He kept his head bowed, the silver locks of his hair obscuring his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Malcolm's voice cracked through the garage like a whip. He stood by the driver's side, his hand resting on the roof of the car, his silver eyes glowing with a sharp, territorial light.
"I... I thought it would be more appropriate, sir," Luca murmured, ducking his head. "To sit in the back."
