Ezra lay on the bed, the cool silk sheets tangled around his waist, Helena resting her head against his chest.
The room was dim, with only the faint light of the moon filtering through the curtains, casting soft silver streaks across the floor. Helena's fingers traced idle patterns on his skin, her touch light and affectionate, but Ezra's mind was far from the room, far from the moment. Or at least, that was what he wanted any observer to see.
But half the job of convincing others is to first convince oneself.
His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but they weren't seeing the faint shadows of the room. They were elsewhere, chasing thoughts of what lay ahead of him. The war, the coven, the missing slush fund, everything. His hands absentmindedly stroked Helena's arm, but the rhythm was off, distracted. He knew she could feel the shift in his energy and that was exactly what he wanted.
