Nyx was already at the breakfast pavilion, a tablet in her hand. To any observer, she was reviewing oncological data. In reality, she was monitoring the GPS ping from Linghe's villa. When it began to move toward the beach, she took a slow, deliberate sip of her black coffee.
When he arrived, looking effortlessly cinematic in an unbuttoned linen shirt and tailored shorts, she didn't look up. Not immediately. She let him stand there for exactly seven seconds—long enough to make him feel the need to speak first.
"Still working, Doctor?" Linghe asked, sliding into the chair opposite her without an invitation. "I thought this was a moratorium."
Nyx finally looked up, her eyes shielded by dark gradients. "I'm reading a study on parasitic relationships, Linghe. It's fascinating how certain organisms convince their hosts that they are actually in control, right up until the moment of consumption."
She leaned forward, the simple movement drawing his eyes to the hollow of her throat. "It reminded me of our conversation last night."