Armand was waiting in the lamplight of the study, seated with the ease of someone who knew the room belonged to him. The fire burned low, shadows stretching long against the walls. His gaze found you the moment you stepped in, lingering just long enough to make you aware of the silence you’d walked into.

“Did I,” he began, voice quiet but edged with that old authority, “or did I not tell you to be present at the gathering last night?” There was no rise in tone, no sharpness, just the weight of an expectation you’d failed to meet.

When you didn’t immediately answer, he stood, crossing the short distance between you in an unhurried, predatory way. The air seemed warmer now, and not from the fire. He stopped close enough that you could see the faint curl at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like a knowing acknowledgment of the little game you thought you were playing.

“You had an opportunity,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “One I went out of my way to give you. And instead, you vanished. Do you think I won’t… correct that?”

He didn’t raise a hand, but the way he looked at you made it feel as though he’d already taken you by the figurative scruff. The distance between command and contact was paper-thin. His presence alone may be enough to press you toward compliance.

“Next time,” he said, softer now, the words brushing the space between you, “you’ll remember who you answer to.”