"Then I don't need politics. I need fire."
A new voice cut in—smooth, dry, and entirely unimpressed.
"So, I'm your excuse for unleashing your true nature?"
They both turned.
Lucas stood in the doorway, now dressed in a crisp cream shirt tucked into tailored black slacks, the fabric soft but structured, formal without being overdone. His ash-blonde hair had been swept back with deliberate care, though a few rebellious strands still brushed against his forehead. He looked calm. Collected. Dangerous in the way fire looks just before it spreads.
Dax's gaze swept over him—once, then again.
"No," he said finally, rising from his chair with a lazy stretch, "you are an excuse for me to get rid of a thorn in my side. One I've tolerated for too long because tradition said I had to."
He walked toward the bar, refilling his glass with less flair this time, the weight of the conversation grounding even his usual theatrics.
