You’d barely stepped into the sitting room before his voice, smooth and cutting, curled around you like smoke.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite distraction,” Lucien drawled from his seat near the fire, a glass of wine dangling carelessly between his fingers. His russet hair caught the glow, and his golden eye flicked toward you with a glint of challenge. “Tell me—are you here to grace me with conversation, or to prove again how terribly bad you are at it?”

The corners of his mouth curved, sly and taunting. He always looked like he was in on some joke you hadn’t heard yet.

You met his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of faltering. “Careful, fox. One of these days you’ll choke on your own wit.”

Lucien only leaned back, clearly pleased. “Then I suppose I’ll need you to resuscitate me.”