Rafael hated that hum with a passion usually reserved for noblemen who wrote anonymous letters and called it politics.
He turned, finally, because staring at Gregoris in a mirror was unfair. Mirrors gave Gregoris too much drama. In real life he was still dramatic, but at least Rafael could blink and pretend he wasn't being hunted in his own wardrobe.
Gregoris's gaze lingered on the high waist, the chain, the collar. Then it dipped, to the faint curve that only existed if you knew where to look.
He didn't touch it.
He just looked at it like it was the most dangerous and precious thing in the Empire.
"Don't," Rafael warned automatically, because his body had learned the pattern: look, then touch, then kiss, then Rafael forgets how to breathe properly for five seconds and resents himself for it.
