Sorrell’s gaze slid to him. “And you’ve brought a gift. How thoughtful.”
“Not a gift,” Thane said sharply. “He’s mine.”
“Mm. Of course he is.”
Riven held himself back a step, letting the moment settle like dust. The shift in air up here was immediate—cooler, more expensive. The filtered silence was somehow louder than the music below, as if the throb of the club was waiting to be acknowledged.
Sorrell reclined like he owned the godsdamned world.
Everything about him was curated excess—the tight cinch of his wine-red waistcoat, the too-deep neckline of his sheer shirt that revealed a gleaming sliver of chest, and a cascade of rings that glittered with subtle magic. His black slacks clung scandalously to long legs crossed at the knee, a showman’s posture if Riven had ever seen one.
Even sitting still, Sorrell looked like he could spring into movement without disturbing a single thread of his finery. And Riven could see it now, in the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the predatory poise beneath the aesthetic. This wasn’t just a foppish aristocrat with a flair for theatrics. This was a predator who dressed like a peacock so people would forget he had claws. Lord Sorrell watched him with the lazy interest of someone browsing a dessert tray, lips just barely curved. His eyes—iridescent like soap bubbles, shifting in the light—seemed to see through Riven.
Riven shifted his weight and fought the urge to fold his arms across his chest.
Below them, the club raged on. Men danced in cages. Magic shimmered off drink trays. A bouncer shoved some drunk out a back door with no ceremony. It felt like another world entirely, and here he was, standing in its glass-bubble eye, about to witness a meeting that could determine whether or not two Great Houses went to war.
Riven didn’t know why Thane had brought him here, but the weight of being present sank into his skin. He wasn’t ready.
He had no idea how to play this game.
But something told him Lord Sorrell did.
The plush leather seats swallowed Riven as Thane settled beside him, eyes narrowed on Lord Sorrell but polite in his stance. Sorrell grinned, flashing sharp teeth, and clasped Thane’s hand with a theatrical flourish.
“Well, well. The infamous Knife of Virellien, finally gracing my humble den. Then this must be the new pet,” Sorrell said, eyes flicking over Riven with amused appraisal.
Thane’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Only when necessary. You’re far from humble, Lord Sorrell.”
Sorrell’s laugh was genuine, or as close as Riven could tell. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Thane. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Just as the tension seemed to ease, the booth’s discreet side door slid open with a soft hiss.
A man stepped in, a living sculpture of muscle and sheen. His skin glistened, bronzed and smooth, every curve and ridge catching the dim light with a wet gleam. The only thing covering him was a sheer mesh thong, translucent enough to betray the sheer size and length of his cock pressing boldly beneath the fabric.
He moved with feline grace, every step measured and deliberate, hips swaying with practiced seduction.
Sorrell’s smile deepened as he nodded at the dancer. “Entertainment, ordered specially for the occasion.”
Thane’s eyes narrowed sharply, a shadow crossing his features. “You brought a stripper?”
“Not just any dancer,” Sorrell said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s been carefully enchanted.” His gaze flicked to Riven as if daring him to question. “Deaf as a stone. Can’t hear a word we say.”
Riven caught the faint shimmer of magic—the delicate silver-blue wards traced subtly along the dancer’s temples, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. It was a cage of silence woven by magic.
The dancer’s lips moved silently, mouthing something impossible to hear, eyes fixed on a distant point beyond them all.
Thane’s lips pressed into a hard line. “At least he won’t be a distraction.”
Sorrell’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Chapter 29
Thane’s gaze locked onto Sorrell’s face, expression cold and sharp. “Have you heard anything about the recent flood of Soulglass hitting the streets? It’s causing trouble in Virellien territory.”
Sorrell’s fingers didn’t stop their slow, deliberate caress along the dancer’s sculpted thigh and rippling abs. His voice was smooth, casual, almost disinterested. “We’ve had people watching it, but no solid leads yet. The usual channels come up empty.”
As he spoke, the stripper shifted, arching his back and sliding his hips in a hypnotic sway. The translucent fabric of his thong clung tighter, outlining the unmistakable hardness growing beneath. Riven found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the dancer’s bold, slow gyrations—the way every muscle flexed beneath the slick sheen of oil.
