To suit Xion's scholarly habits, Darius had purchased a new set of furniture just for him.
The table was carved from the most decadent dark mahogany, polished until it gleamed like still water. It reeked of wealth, discipline, and the arrogance of power.
This kind of table was meant for quiet contemplation, for books and brushes. It deserved to be used in the late nights when the peaceful time would be spent copying old scriptures under flickering candlelight.
Papers were still stacked on it along with ink and brushes.
And now Xion was pinned on that exact same table.
His cheek rested on a half-written scroll. It felt cool and dry against his heated skin. The sharp scent of fresh ink clinging to the parchment was enough to make him dizzy.
One of the brushes had rolled to the floor moments ago. Another lay forgotten beside his elbow.
