Soren
When I got to my office, the phone was still buzzing on the table, vibrating in short bursts against the wood. I glanced at the screen, recognizing the number before the irritation set in.
Fuck Damien.
He only called when he wanted something, and it was rarely ever straightforward.
I could have been in Rowan's arms right now but I wasn't.
I debated ignoring it, but I knew he'd just keep calling. Picking it up, I swiped the screen and answered.
"What?" I said curtly.
"Soren," Damien's voice drawled, smooth and rich, like the brandy he always drank. "We need to talk. It's important."
"It always is with you." I leaned back in my chair, watching the city lights through the office window. "What is it this time?"
"Not over the phone," he said sharply, the easy tone gone. "Hotel La Volière. Room 905. Now."
I checked the clock, "You'd better not be wasting my time, Damien."
