Phei took a deliberate bite of his steak.
Perfectly cooked—medium-rare, seared to a crust that gave way to tender, bloody warmth beneath. The Maxtons had always possessed impeccable taste in personal chefs; one of the few things he could still admire about this mausoleum of a family without irony.
He chewed slowly, savouring the flavour, allowing the silence to stretch across the mahogany table like a tightening garrote while Harold settled into his throne at the head and the others arranged themselves with the wary precision of chess pieces awaiting the first sacrilegious move.
Delilah was watching him.
He could feel it—the heat of her gaze stroking his skin like a physical caress, equal parts hunger, confusion, and raw, aching desperation. Poor darling was wound so tight she might snap if he so much as breathed in her direction. He would unwind her later, slowly, exquisitely, until she was a trembling puddle of gratitude and ruined innocence.
