The tavern had settled into that slow, heavy-lidded kind of quiet that only came after a long night of drinking.
Most of the rowdier patrons had stumbled out an hour ago, leaving behind a handful of regulars nursing their last drinks, a few stubborn drunks still trying to outpace their livers, and Lucien—who was visibly suffering.
He was leaning against the bar, cheek against one hand, drumming his fingers against the wood in slow, sloping impatience. His silver eyes occasionally darted to the door, as if hoping something thrilling to happen.
It did not.
Taryn, sitting beside him, ignored him entirely. She was counting the night's coin, flicking through the stack of silvers with the focus of someone who was not about to entertain Lucien's nonsense.
He sighed. Loudly.
No reaction.
He tried again, more dramatic this time.
Still nothing.
Lucien scowled, shifting in his seat like a man enduring great personal suffering.
