There were few things Elliot Claymore treasured more than his mornings.
Silk sheets. Silence.
A perfectly steeped silver-leaf tea served by a valet who knew never to speak unless spoken to.
So when someone pounded on his door before sunrise, Elliot already knew the day was a catastrophe.
The door opened without permission.
Good morning, Count Nissa," came the voice of a devil. "I hope you slept well. You'll need the energy."
Elliot didn't move. His face remained buried in the pillow, one arm thrown over his eyes. He didn't need to look. There was only one person in the Empire who would speak to him in that tone, in that wing, at that hour, and still expect to be thanked for it.
"Max," he sighed. "Who was the unfortunate soul that let you in?"
