CASSIAN
I dragged Cyan toward the private room with the same level of ceremony I'd use to haul a bag of trash to the curb. He was still vibrating with that manic, neon energy, his pink hair a blur in my peripheral vision as he chattered away, completely unbothered by the fact that I was nearly dislocating his shoulder.
The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, isolating us from the boutique and my wide-eyed, traumatized assistant, Cyan exploded.
"Who is he, Cassie?! Oh my God, where did you find him? He's like a little porcelain doll! Does he break easily? I bet he does. There's something going on there, isn't there? I can smell the tension from here, and it smells like repressed Catholic guilt and expensive cologne!"
I leaned back against the door, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't even blink. "Mind your damn business, Cyan."
