The air split.
Not a portal. Not a gate. A crack — the sound of space being displaced by a body that had no patience for distance. The wind that followed ruffled the curtains of the main hall, carrying the faint stench of brine and flowers. Viktor stood at the gate of the Lord's Mansion, bare feet on polished marble, naked, his twin amethyst horns catching the afternoon light through the high windows.
The mermaid hung in his arms. Princess carry. Her tail, scaled and heavy, draped over his forearm and swayed. Her breasts, full and bare, pressed against his chest. Her silver hair fell past his elbow, dripping saltwater onto the floor. She blinked at the vaulted ceiling, at the tapestries, at the chandeliers.
The maids moved.
