Three hours later, Lucien finally steps out of the room, leaving most of the brothel splayed across beds and couches behind him. Tails draped over armrests, ears twitching in their sleep, one particularly spirited fox-kin still murmuring his name into a pillow.
He's glistening with sweat, hair a disaster, chest still heaving, and thoroughly pleased with himself as he sucks down a bottle of stamina tonic like it's a job well done.
Serenith hovers outside the door, tapping one foot against empty air, glaring daggers into his skull.
"The foot-tapping works better," he says, tossing the empty bottle into a nearby bin, "when your feet are actually touching something. Bit wasted on a woman who floats."
"It's been three hours." She snarls. "All you've done is bang beast-folk into oblivion. How exactly does that secure a trade route, or help the world's balance, in any way?!"
