The elevator doors open.
The hallway is cold.
Not metaphorically.
Actually cold.
The volcanic heat that usually radiates from the massage suite is gone. The air is frigid, biting, like someone turned off the heating system entirely.
My breath mists in front of my face.
I walk slowly toward the reinforced door at the end of the hall, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor. The orange glow from the heat lamps is dimmer than usual—barely visible through the frosted glass.
I reach for the door handle.
It's ice-cold under my palm.
I push it open.
The suite is freezing.
The volcanic heat lamps are still on, but they're not radiating warmth. The air is thick and oppressive, like walking into a meat locker. The reinforced massage table is empty. The plush furs are gone.
And Cyprian is standing in the center of the room.
Waiting.
His wings are folded tightly against his back. His slate-gray skin looks darker than usual—almost charcoal. His crystallineveins are glowing a dull, dangerous amber-orange that makes my stomach drop.
He's not looking at me.
He's staring at the floor, his massive hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and formal.
"Close the door," he says.
His voice is flat.
Cold.
Completely devoid of emotion.
I close the door.
The lock clicks.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the single chair positioned in the center of the room.
Not the massage table.
A chair.
Like this is an interrogation.
My throat tightens. "Cyprian, I need to show you something—"
"Sit."
It's not a request.
