With cool detachment, Laurent’s fingers gathered rubies, inclining Damen’s head down far enough to kiss him on the cheek. The kiss was insubstantial: not a single mote of gold paint transferred itself to Laurent’s lips in the process. “You look like a whore.” The soft words barely stirred the air by Damen’s ear, inaudible to anyone else. Laurent murmured: “Filthy painted slut. Did you spread for my uncle the way you did for Kastor?”
