The atmosphere in Belica's penthouse was thick enough to chew. It didn't just smell like magic, it felt like being trapped inside a heavy, velvet-lined jewelry box that someone had forgotten to poke air holes in. Theron was currently pacing the length of the Italian marble floor like a frantic, caged leopard. Which, technically, he was.
He stopped in front of the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping, indifferent view of the city skyline. His reflection stared back at him, amber eyes glowing with a frustrated, predatory heat that he couldn't quite douse.
"I'm leaving, Belica," he growled, his voice vibrating with a low-frequency threat. "I've had enough of the incense, the violet tea, and these damn cryptic riddles. Darien hasn't paged, which means he's either dead or playing house, and I'm officially done being your decorative paperweight."
