Nyxire's belly gave a gentle huff beneath his skull—half amusement, half judgment.
"What do you make of it all, Nyxire? Of her mother encounter with me. Of me. Of today's latest delightful catastrophe."
She gave a short, emphatic snort. Translation: I have opinions and they remain mine.
He laughed, and the sound cracked neatly in the middle like fine porcelain dropped by a clumsy boy he was once. Even his fractures had impeccable timing.
"Guarding your counsel. How novel. Fair enough—they're yours. I'll allow it."
He closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell against her flank in a rhythm slower, heavier, more utterly surrendered than any of his women had ever witnessed. The weight he had dragged home tonight was not for ARIA's ledgers, not for his harem's adoring hands, not even for the god who wore his face in public.
He had brought it here, to the one place on the estate where no one would dare interpret his exhaustion as weakness.
Almost no one.
