Quentin stopped a breath away from her, close enough that the heat from the fireplace painted the edges of his coat in molten gold, but not quite close enough to touch her without making it very obvious he wanted to.
His boots clicked sharply against the marble with that brisk, soldierly rhythm he always carried when he wanted someone to know they were in trouble, and Elvina, ever the connoisseur of trouble, simply tilted her head like a cat watching a stupid toy swing toward her face.
His stare dragged over her with a slow, heavy weight, the kind that felt like he was searching her for scorch marks, guilt, or perhaps a reason not to shake her violently by the shoulders.
I felt myself sink a little lower behind the statue, hugging Sir Constipated Hero like he was my emotional support boulder. The air thickened between them like someone had poured honey into the atmosphere and forgotten to stir.
"What were you doing just now?" Quentin asked, his voice low, clipped, the words shaped so precisely they might as well have been filed into weapons.
He didn't ask it like a question; he asked it like a man who had walked in on something and was trying very, very hard not to assume the worst.
His eyes flicked once toward the table—then sharply back to Elvina, as if the whiplash alone could extract the truth.
Elvina smirked—one of those slow, poisonous little curves of the mouth that suggested she not only did the crime, but also kept the receipts, the alibis, and the blackmail material neatly alphabetized in a drawer labeled "Amateurs."
"Just now?" she said, her voice smooth at first, airy even—until that tiny hitch caught on her exhale, so faint most people wouldn't have heard it.
I did. Quentin did. Saints above, even the statue felt it. She recovered instantly though, eyes going half-lidded in that bored, glittering way she used when she wanted people to assume she was entirely too elegant to commit wrongdoing with her own hands.
"Just stretching my legs. Saints know this place is a tomb."
I nearly choked on my own tongue trying not to snort.
Quentin's brow arched, slow and unimpressed. "Stretching," he repeated. Not questioning. Not disbelieving. Just repeating the word like he wanted to pin it to a wall and interrogate it independently of the person who said it.
His hand ghosted over the table's surface, fingertips brushing over the marble as if checking for… something. My lungs seized, and I nearly fell backward into the statue's shin.
Elvina pushed off the table and flicked her hair back, the gesture practiced enough to count as a personal trademark.
"You look tense," she teased, lightly, lazily, the smirk blooming into something wickedly amused. "Did you drag me here in the dead of night so you could stand there and scowl at me like I pissed in your boots? Gods, Quentin, your idea of romance is fucking pathetic."
Oh Saints, she was really doing it.
Quentin's jaw tightened. Just a fraction, but it was there. "You know exactly why I asked you here." His voice frayed at the edges, but only barely—he held himself together like someone had stapled authority straight into his spine.
Elvina rolled her eyes so dramatically her head tipped with the motion. "Do I? Because frankly, you really need to start sending memos. I don't exactly operate on the wavelength of your broody internal monologues."
Broody? Quentin? I almost snickered aloud. The man was a strict two degrees away from being a sentient dagger wearing boots. Broody was generous.
"You still owe me," Quentin said, ignoring all of her theatrics with admirable, if deeply strained, composure. "For earlier today."
Elvina scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut skin. "Owe you? Quentin, please. Spare me the crap."
He stepped closer. Just a hair. Barely perceptible to anyone who wasn't me, a stalker with front-row Elven Sight. "I protected you," he said. "Whether you admit it or not."
There was a beat—one that stretched taut enough to pluck.
Elvina's smile evaporated so quickly it was like watching a candle snuffed by an unseen hand. "I didn't need your protection," she snapped, each syllable clipped and cold.
Quentin's stare hardened, and he leaned just enough to loom. "He had you cornered."
My soul flinched.
Oh great. Fantastic. Wonderful. I love when people talk about me like I'm a problem in need of pest control. It really spices up my day.
Elvina clicked her tongue, closing her eyes like she was summoning patience from a realm where she had maybe three ounces total. "He caught me off guard," she said, waving a hand dismissively, as if that somehow fixed the fact that I'd practically had her back to the wall. "I wasn't exactly expecting—ugh, him."
Rude. Incredibly rude. Accurate, but rude.
Quentin folded his arms, posture rigid. "And why didn't you use your magic?"
Her eye cracked open like a door she wanted to slam back shut immediately. "We're not doing this again."
"We are," he said simply.
"We're not," she repeated, with the petulant conviction of someone who would set a building on fire if it meant winning an argument.
Quentin waited, silent, pointed, immovable. Saints above, was this how he was with everyone? No wonder people followed his orders; ignoring him probably felt like trying to ignore gravity.
Elvina eventually deflated with a long, suffering sigh. "We've gone over this a thousand times," she said. "If I use my magic recklessly, I expose my lineage. And if that happens, darling, my reputation doesn't just take a hit, it dissolves. Completely. Utterly. Like snow under dragonfire."
I felt my heart skip something that probably counts as a dangerous rhythm. Lineage? Oh this was delicious. This was the kind of lore you only overhear when you're hiding behind pretentious marble statues shaped like constipated war heroes.
Quentin exhaled through his nose—a sound that sat somewhere between irritated and begrudgingly understanding. "Right. Whatever." He waved a hand, brushing the entire topic aside like it physically annoyed him to acknowledge. "So. About your repayment..."
Elvina's smirk returned like it had merely stepped out for a drink. She slinked closer, posture dripping with mock sultriness that was really just disguised cruelty. "My repayment," she echoed softly. "You mean you dragged me out of my evening to bark about that?"
Quentin's throat bobbed, an involuntary reaction I refused to miss. "Elvina—"
She cut him off with a single, perfectly sharpened glide of her voice: "What? Did saving me give you ideas?" She leaned in with a sweetness so poisoned it glittered. "Did you puff your chest and think I'd fall into your arms like one of those little blonde bitches in the training wing? Did you imagine a thank-you hug? Maybe a kiss on the cheek? Oh—Saints—did you actually expect gratitude?"
I swear Quentin's composure cracked like old paint.
His breath hitched once, barely audible, but his face—usually as unreadable as a locked safe—flushed at the edges. Not much. Just enough to prove she'd hit the bullseye.
I slapped a hand over my mouth behind the statue. This was better than any book, show, or theater performance I had ever snuck into without paying.
Quentin reached out, maybe without thinking, just wanting to steady her, stop her, or touch her to shut her up—who knows, really—but his hand didn't make it more than half a second into the gesture.
Elvina slapped it away.
Hard.
Her expression, which had been bratty amusement moments ago, twisted into pure disgust—sharp, instantaneous, like someone had dropped a mask and revealed something venomous beneath.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't you dare fucking touch me! Saints above, men are all the same. One whiff of danger, one second of playing hero, and you think it buys you a handful of my cunt. Every. Single. Time." She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Your stupid chivalry isn't a favor. It's a leash. And I don't wear leashes."
Quentin stiffened, shoulders locking with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. "Elvina please—"
"We'll do this my way," she interrupted, voice dropping, cold enough to frost steel. "Or not at all."
He blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," she said, stepping back with regal disdain, "kneel."
The word hung in the air like a falling sword. Quentin stared at her like she'd suddenly grown wings and tried to hypnotize him. "You can't be serious."
Elvina's eyes darkened. Oh Saints. "I'm always serious."
And before he could react—before he could laugh, gasp, or even argue—
She kicked him.
Right in the balls.