Two guards stand there. One opens it without a word.
Inside, the room is dim. Lamps. Candles. Smoke and old stone and something that makes my pulse jump.
Orpheus is there.
Of course, he is.
He’s seated like he owns the world. Relaxed. Controlled. His eyes catch on me immediately.
My stomach tightens.
I remind myself of the rules.
He’s my boss.
This is a job.
Keep it professional.
“Good,” he says. “You’re here.”
“I was told to come,” I reply.
His eyes rake over me slowly, and I hate that my body reacts. Heat creeps up my neck. My pulse jumps, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
He stands and gestures. “Bring me a drink.”
“What kind of drink would you like?” I ask, remembering this is my job here. I can’t say something snarky as I want to.
“Bourbon straight, no ice.”
I nod and move to the bar.
I grab a snifter glass, pick a bourbon from the selection that feels like it would be the best choice, and bring it to him.
He takes it without thanking me.
“Stand there,” he says, pointing near the wall.
I pause. “Stand there?”
“Yes.”
I do it because I don’t know what else he expects. Serving tables is one thing. Same as tending the bar. Being placed like furniture is another.
Minutes pass.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t look at me.
He just drinks slowly like he’s thinking.
I shift my weight.
“Adjust the lighting,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
