Morpheus stared at the flower that had slipped from Arabella's hand, watching as its once-lustrous petals deepened into a sickly shade of purple. The transformation was rapid, unnatural — as though the bloom itself recoiled from being sullied by the cold stone floor. Its stem curled, its essence fading before their eyes.
He did not move. His gaze lingered on the flower longer than necessary, and in that silence, the air between them thickened. The faint hum of magic around him darkened like an approaching storm.
Arabella could see it, how he had tightened his jaw, the way his expression did not falter though irritation flickered behind those calm, otherworldly eyes. He was displeased. She knew it well. He had taken great care, too much than he intended at first perhaps, in seeking out that rare flower, and for her to simply let it fall was to trample on the effort he had deemed precious.
But that was precisely her intention.
