They entered Bellatrix's parlor and Serena's brain short-circuited.
Champagne glasses were out. Four of them, crystal, arranged on the tea table with the geometric precision of a woman who measured the distance between glassware with her eyes and whose eyes were accurate to the millimeter. A platter of cookies sat beside them, arranged in concentric circles, each cookie identical in size and placement, because Bellatrix Drakenfell did not serve food, she curated it.
Onyx was wearing a tuxedo.
A miniature, custom-fitted, black-and-white tuxedo with a tiny bow tie that sat at the base of his throat and moved when he breathed. His scales gleamed underneath it, freshly oiled, and his gold eyes were bright with the specific alertness of a dragon who knew he looked good and was waiting for confirmation.
