By the time Belvare finished bleeding itself clean enough to pretend it had always been civilized, Chris had reached a very specific, very brittle stage of exhaustion, one that made your bones feel too loud inside your skin and every polite sentence become an act of violence you choose not to commit.
The airspace had been sealed "for security reasons," which was a diplomatic way of saying there were still bodies to account for, glass to replace, and a list of names that needed to be rewritten before anyone allowed a plane to cross the sky over the city again. Belvare's officials had smiled through it, hands shaking, offering apologies like pastries. Their eyes kept flicking to Dax whenever they thought he wasn't looking, as if the King of Saha might decide to finish the job out of boredom.
Dax hadn't even looked tired.
Chris had never hated someone more lovingly in his life.
