They both stared at each other for a long while, the silence between them stretching thin as a blade's edge. Neither blinked, neither spoke. The air grew still, pressing down on them with invisible weight, and even the flames in the candelabras seemed to hesitate in their flicker, as though afraid to disturb what was unfolding.
Morpheus's gaze bore into her with the weight of storms, sharp and unrelenting, yet she didn't waver. There was no tremor in Arabella's breath, no softening in her stare.
The faint curve that had once played at the corner of her lips had vanished, replaced by something cold, measured, and unmistakably serious. When he saw that change, when he saw the quiet fury glimmering behind her green eyes, he knew. She was not jesting. Not this time.
If he refused her now, she would do something he'd rather not see. Something that would wound him, not with force, but with precision, where it would hurt the most.
