The parlor was too quiet.
That was Lucas's first warning.
The second was Chris, curled on one end of the velvet sofa like a cat who hadn't slept in a week and had also personally fought each hour that passed. His collar was the only thing properly arranged, Dax's work for sure, with one cuff unbuttoned, no coat, wrinkled shirt and his eyes had the distinct, dull glaze of a man who had considered murder, war, and divorce sometime between 3 and 4 a.m.
He barely looked up when they entered.
Dax, on the other hand, looked entirely too awake.
