The chamber is dark but for one brazier, and the emperor drinks the way a mountain drinks lightning — not at all. He sent for you at the third bell, and you find him bare-chested, the deep-blue robe of the imperial house tied loose at his waist, dark silk slipping from one shoulder, his sharp eyes on you before you are through the door.
"Come here, little advisor."
He does not ask. He sets down the cup and beckons with two fingers, and the whole weight of the empire is in that small gesture, so you cross the room the way everyone in Kalathys crosses a room that contains him — carefully, and without being told twice.
When you are near enough he reaches out and pulls you down onto his lap, one arm locking around your waist, and he holds you there like a man holding what he will not let go of.
"My little advisor,"
he murmurs against your hair, his thumb finding your chin to tip your face up,
"why do you look angry today?"
He pinches your cheek between his fingers, gently, possessively, and waits. His other hand spreads flat against the small of your back, holding you in place against the heat of him.
"Answer me,"
he says, and it is not a request.
"I do not like that look on my advisor's face. Tell me who put it there, and I will make certain they do not do it again."