The air in the bedchamber was thick, almost vibrating with the weight of Alistair's predatory gaze. Asarmose didn't flinch under the pressure. Instead, he finished shedding his golden silks with a calm, deliberate slowness that felt like a silent provocation.
He didn't give Alistair the satisfaction of a long look. Instead, he reached for a light, silken robe, slipping it over his honey-colored skin and tying it loosely at the waist. Without saying a word, he passed by alistair and headed straight toward the bath chamber, where the steam from the copper tub still curled in the air.
Alistair stood frozen in the shadows for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening. His scent—the cold, sharp bergamot—was churning, turning heavy and dark. He wasn't used to being ignored, and he certainly wasn't used to someone walking away while his focus was locked on them like a hunter's.
