The morning sun spilled gently into the Nagasaki estate, the kind of golden warmth that almost made one forget about underground dealings, missing agents, and the web of alliances tightening like a noose.
Wynter was curled on the chaise by the window, her bare feet tucked beneath her and one hand resting on the curve of her belly. The silk robe she wore clung softly to her figure, hair pinned up lazily. It was a rare moment of stillness. A rare moment of theirs.
Keith entered the room with two mugs in hand — one decaf for her, one criminally strong for himself.
"You look like a sleepy cat," he said, setting her cup down beside her.
"And you look like you've been fighting ghosts all night." She eyed the shadows under his eyes with a small smirk.
Keith scoffed, sitting beside her. "Close enough. Father's been drilling the meeting with the Volkovs into my skull. I think I heard his voice in my dream threatening me with a shoe."
Wynter chuckled. "Was it a good shoe?"
