“No.”
“Evie.”
“No.”
Silence. Then the latch shifts.
He has a key. Of course he has a key.
The door opens. I stare at him. He pauses on the threshold. To his credit, he doesn’t step inside. To his detriment, he’s opened a locked door.
“Apparently,” I say, “including you was more of a philosophical boundary.”
“I didn’t enter.”
“You unlocked the door.”
“Yes.”
“How restrained.”
His gaze moves over my face. “You heard.”
“I believe the south wing borders have expanded.”
“Luca should’ve stopped you.”
“Luca enjoys continued use of his hands.”
A faint change at his mouth. “May I come in?”
I laugh once. “Now he asks.”
“May I?”
I should say no. For pride. For setting a boundary. For the satisfying symmetry of making him stand in the hall like a punished emperor. But information is more useful than satisfaction.
“Enter,” I say.
He does, closing the door behind him. The room holds us carefully. He looks like he always does after council. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly composed. As if power leaves no residue when worn correctly.
Liar.
There’s tension in his shoulders. Not visible to anyone else. Visible to me because I’ve spent months studying him like a locked room I intend to rob.
“Four days,” he tells me. “That’s when rehabilitation is considered complete.”
“What a marvelous phrase,” I shoot back. “Did they embroider it on a cushion for his return?”
“No.”
“Pity. Teresa could put it in the east wing.”
“He won’t be housed anywhere near you.”
“How considerate. Shall I send flowers to wherever you keep murderers with management potential?”
His eyes sharpen. “Evie.”
