Dax's smile widened at that—lazy, unbothered, and far too entertained. The kind of smile that had launched wars and ended negotiations. He took another step down, just enough to be eye-level with Trevor, even though the marble stairs still gave him a slight height advantage.
"Return? But you've just arrived," he said, his voice silked with mischief. "Wouldn't that be rude, even for you?"
"Lucas, you can relax; he is just butthurt that he didn't have a chance to get to you." Trevor turned to Dax. "You should have been more polite with Serathine."
Dax let out a slow, incredulous laugh—low and rich, like someone truly savoring the absurdity of being called out in front of a crowd of soldiers, a Grand Duchess, and a very, very smug Trevor Fitzgeralt.
"Oh, I was polite," Dax drawled, hand resting lightly on the curve of the banister. "I just wasn't desperate. You, on the other hand—"
"I was punctual," Trevor cut in, all steel beneath silk. "There's a difference."
