“You’re enjoying this little soirée far too much for my liking, my dear. Need I remind you we’re here to work not play pretend amongst the rich?” The low whisper of Hector’s reprimand tugged your attention away from the tray of hors d’oeuvres carefully balance on the palm of the poor attendant you’d spent the past five minutes chasing down.

Hector’s mood had been sour ever since the two of you had received word from your agency that you were to find and eradicate the Blight that had settled itself in the cushioned bosom of Birchford’s elite. There was nothing Hector hated more than having to work at the expense of the rich and ungrateful.

But such were the demands of your profession and his—Plague Hunters, individuals who hunted physical manifestations of sickness and disease called Blights. Where they went, so too did you, hoping to be done with the job before it escalated into pandemonium.

Despite the glove that covered his hand, Hector’s touch was warm against the expanse of your lower back, the force he used to push you from the crowd of people into one of the dimly lit hallways that led to the ballroom was little. Your compliance was appreciated, rewarded with a grunt of approval.

“It was stuffy. Couldn’t think,” he explained, jerking his head in the ballroom’s general direction. Away from the noise, Hector’s shoulders slumped slightly, unburdened by the lack of public eye. “One evening, {{user}}, that’s all I ask. Behave.”