Alistair didn't break the gaze. He stayed in Asarmose's space for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting the weight of his presence—and that singular, intoxicating pheromone—settle between them. Finally, he stepped back, the mocking ghost of a smile vanishing into a line of cold business.
"We leave at the second bell before dawn," Alistair said, turning toward the mahogany desk. He pulled a hidden latch beneath the drawer, and a compartment slid open, revealing two bundles of heavy, coarse fabric. "No guards. No heralds. If we are caught by my own patrols, I will not reveal myself to save us. We will be treated as any other wandering scavengers."
Asarmose walked toward the desk, his fingers brushing against the rough wool of the bundles. The exquisite silk he currently wore felt like a lie against the reality of the mission. "I wouldn't expect you to save me, Alistair. I'm quite capable of handling your patrols. It's your own inability to blend in that concerns me."
