Elara held her breath in anticipation, the tension so thick it felt like the air alone might crush her. From her cramped hiding place under the ornate table, she watched as Ravenor's black boots stopped in front of the chair. The shirt she'd worked so hard to clean rested on the armrest, her folded note tucked into its pocket.
Ravenor leaned down, plucking the shirt between his long, pale fingers. His expression was unreadable, except for the faint arch of his dark brow.
"What's this?" he murmured to himself, turning the fabric over. The note caught his eye, and his lips twitched with what might have been amusement. He unfolded the parchment and read aloud, his tone dripping with dry sarcasm.
'The task is done. I hope this meets your expectations.'
"Earnest," he muttered, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting across his face. Then, more pointedly, "Desperate."
