Caius stepped out of The Rusted Fang, the night air cooling the frustration burning in his chest.
Lucavion was already outside, waiting. He stood near the entrance, hands tucked lazily into his coat pockets, gazing up at the Varenthian skyline with an unreadable expression.
Beside him, one of Draven's men—a burly, rough-faced guy named Orin—stood stiffly, arms crossed. His gaze flickered toward Lucavion every so often, just shy of being outright hostile.
Caius couldn't blame him.
Half the bar was still rolling around in pain thanks to this bastard, and now Orin had to personally escort him to some cozy hideout on Draven's orders. The only thing keeping the guy from acting on his resentment was the fact that Draven had made himself very clear—Lucavion wasn't to be touched.
Lucavion must have noticed the tension, because he finally turned to Orin with a lazy smile.
"You're staring," he noted casually.
Orin grunted. "I'm watching."
