Rafael emerged from the steam with damp hair, dressed in a white bathrobe, a towel draped around his shoulders, and the vague sense that he had just escaped something far more dangerous than hot water.
Silence greeted him.
Not Gregoris.
Which was both a relief and an immediate source of unease, because peace in this mansion generally meant someone elsewhere was plotting his emotional murder.
He had barely stepped into the bedroom when the door clicked softly.
"Milord Rafael," Peter said, voice politely serene in the way only palace-trained staff could achieve when confronting disaster. He entered with perfect posture, and more importantly, with a rectangular cream-white gift box resting on his hands like an offering to the gods.
An ether-stabilized box. The humming field was subtle, but Rafael felt it immediately. Rafael had no talent in ether manipulation, spells, or anything related to it, but the work in the palace under Gabriel taught him how to recognize danger.
He froze.
