Jefferson's POV
The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, the amber liquid doing little to ease the tension coiling in my shoulders. I glanced across the mahogany desk at Gordon, who lounged in the leather chair with the casual confidence that had annoyed me since we were teenagers.
"Feels strange not seeing you around the estate these past few days," he commented, swirling his own drink.
I set my glass down with deliberate precision. "That's because I haven't been around for days." My voice carried the flat finality that usually ended conversations, but Gordon had never been one to take hints.
