Goliath drank.
The wine touched his tongue, dark and dry, with a mineral bitterness that belonged to the vintage and nothing more.
There was no hidden sweetness curling wrong beneath the throat. No pulse from the cup wards. No tightening from the internal protections every dominant alpha of Goliath's strength carried beneath his skin as naturally as breath.
Nothing.
For one long, terrible moment, nothing was wrong.
Arik felt Goliath swallow, felt the wine slide down into a body too old, too powerful, and too certain of its own survival to fear a glass poured in a private dining room. The wine entered heated channels already widened from battle and already softened by bathwater and exhaustion and did not strike.
Felix lowered his head again, a perfect line of regret and obedience.
"Forgive me," he said.
Goliath set the glass down.
