The dressing suite of the Dravik manor didn't feel like a room, it felt like a high-tech staging area for a coup. The walls were soundproofed with charcoal-grey acoustic panels, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city's concrete canyons, currently being lashed by a cold, industrial rain. Inside, the air smelled of expensive espresso, ozone from the high-end steam cleaners, and the faint, musky scent of ancient power that seemed to cling to every piece of furniture Darien owned.
Amara stood on a circular marble pedestal in the center of the room, feeling like a very expensive, very annoyed mannequin. Her body ached, not just from the stress of being Darien's mate, but from the sheer weight of the expectations being draped over her shoulders.
"Turn. Left. Slowly," a voice commanded. It wasn't Darien. It was a voice that sounded like ice cracking under a heavy boot.
