Far from the polished halls of Ophelia's dorm, the air was heavy with perfume and heat, thick enough to cling to the skin like oil.
Odin sat in a deep leather chair, the kind that swallowed a man whole, his posture deceptively relaxed. Across from him, Misty lay draped on a velvet chaise, eyes glazed and unfocused, her body moving faintly with the restless rhythm of a heat that wasn't entirely her own. She was beautiful still, in the way a weapon is beautiful even when dulled, dangerous only if someone else wields it.
"Ready for customers," Odin murmured, the words more observation than compliment, his tone almost bored.
Misty's gaze flickered to him, glassy and sluggish, though whether she understood or not was impossible to tell.
