I looked at Maki.
Maki looked at me.
Bartholomew continued his lettuce pilgrimage across the terrarium glass, unbothered by the hostage negotiation unfolding three feet from his castle.
"Let me make sure I understand," I said, keeping my voice level. "You're threatening to tell Natalia about an incident that did not happen the way you're going to describe it, unless I provide you with fish."
Maki's golden eyes dilated. Her pupils contracted to vertical slits, which was her version of a poker tell. It meant she was either about to lie, about to pounce, or both.
"Premium tuna," she corrected, her twin tails unwinding from my wrist and swaying behind her with lazy, predatory rhythm. "The fatty kind. From the market in the harbor district. The one with the old man who wraps it in actual paper instead of plastic."
"That's a forty-minute round trip."
"I'm worth it."
"You tried to lick my chest in a bathtub while my girlfriend was downstairs."
