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Laurent had stopped dead the moment he had seen Damen, his face turning white, as though in reaction to a slap or an insult.
The methodical ritual of unlacing made Damen wonder, scornfully, if Veretian lovers suspended their passion for a half hour in order to disrobe.
Torveld favoured Laurent with another of those long, admiring looks that were starting to come with grating frequency. Damen frowned. Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup.
In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him.
“Yesterday I brutalised him. Today I am swooning into his arms. I would prefer the charges against me to be consistent. Pick one.”
“Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.”
Damen felt a certain amount of empathy with the man: Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing.
