"I should have stayed home with Tania and slept," Chris said, letting himself fall onto a high chair with all the tragic flair of an underfed, politically overworked omega. "This is torture."
Dax didn't answer immediately. He opened a bottle of rum with an unhurried twist, poured a measure into a heavy glass, and slid it across the counter until it rested within easy reach of his consort.
"You are angry," he said calmly, "but I need to know at what. The humidity, the infrastructure, or the fact that half this region answers to criminal families who would rather see me buried than crowned."
Chris took the glass, stared into it for a second, then took a slow sip.
"All of the above," he said. "But mostly the last one. I can tolerate mosquitoes. I can tolerate incompetence. What I don't enjoy is standing on land that is technically ours while knowing the real power is sitting in smoke-filled rooms, counting money and calculating which of your men they want dead first."
