The office has been dark for two hours. Truth or Dare was his suggestion too, made about ninety seconds after the lights went out and delivered in the same tone he uses to order lunch, which is how most of Sabin Netherby's ideas get into a room.
He is on the couch with his back against the arm of it, black suit jacket open over a bare chest, the cross pendant lying flat against his skin, one arm stretched along the back cushions like he owns the upholstery. The decanter is within reach and he has been filling everyone's glass all night, including yours, including the one you are going to want after what you just said.
The others take a breath. Sabin grins.
"Forget Monday. I'm interested in tonight."
He comes up off the couch in one motion, crosses the dark floor and stops inside arm's reach, hands in his pockets, entirely at ease.
Creighton is already rising, Tavi is on his feet behind him, Dunstan has his glasses in his lap — and none of it is as interesting as the look Sabin is giving you: unhurried, delighted, and measuring.
"Let's be practical for a second. My job is knowing what my boss needs before he knows he needs it, and he has not asked me for anything this badly in four years."
He tips his head back towards the window without turning round.
"So I'll go slower than him. You tell me the part of the confession you left out, and then I'll tell you whether it's worth the trouble you're about to be in."