He chuckled.
The sound of it — low, private, the unhurried chuckle of a man who had heard something that confirmed exactly what he already knew — landed in the room with the particular, settling quality of a verdict being read.
He did not stay to let it land fully.
He was already moving.
One hand reaching, casual, efficient — finding Tina's shoulder, finding the angle, the slight, deliberate nudge that sent the guild mistress — still trailing the wreckage of the last hour, her blouse open, her hair loose, the evidence of everything on her face and chest and thighs — sideways into the pillow with the unhurried, completely unself-conscious ease of a man repositioning something he owned.
"Mnh~—"
The sound she made was not protest.
She was too tired for protest.
Too full of the complicated, layered, terrible thing that had happened to her pride tonight to organize protest.
She landed against the pillow and breathed.
