Arik arrived to collect Liam fifteen minutes before they were expected downstairs.
He had dressed for the evening without turning himself into a funeral procession, which Liam appreciated.
The suit was pale, somewhere between warm ivory and stone, tailored close through Arik's broad shoulders before falling cleanly along his frame. Gold appeared only in narrow details at the cuffs and beneath the collar, understated enough that the sovereign insignia pinned at his chest carried most of the imperial weight. His black hair had been swept back from his forehead, softening around his ears and the nape of his neck whenever it escaped whatever Rubis had used to convince it into place.
He looked annoyingly good.
Liam was still deciding whether that justified forgiving him for being nearly a head taller than everyone else when Arik stepped through the dressing-room doors.
Ayla saw him first.
She looked at Arik and then at Liam; she burst out laughing.
Arik stopped.
