The evening at the Armitage estate felt as though it had been dipped in amber. The world outside—the stock market crashes, the Sterling ruins, the legal battles—was a frantic, distant noise that couldn't penetrate the thick limestone walls of the master suite. Here, the air was still, scented with the expensive, woody aroma of sandalwood incense and the faint, sweet steam of honeyed jasmine tea.
Arm was propped up against a mountain of silk pillows, a book resting forgotten on his lap. He wasn't looking at the pages; he was looking at Mild, who was kneeling on the rug beside the bed, meticulously folding a stack of freshly laundered linens with the kind of focused devotion usually reserved for a religious ritual.
"You move as if the world is made of glass, Mild," Arm murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to wrap around the room. He reached out, his fingers trailing idly along the edge of the duvet, inching closer to where Mild worked.
