Page 62 of The Mourning Throne
“Everything is fuckingbuzzing," Lex snapped. " I hate you.”
Morgan exhaled. “You don’t.”
“I do right now.”
Morgan slipped his jacket off the moment the suite door clicked shut behind them.
“Do you think I was too rough on you?” he asked, pulling a hanger from the closet.
Lex went remarkably silent.
Morgan raisedan eyebrow.
“It’s not a trick question,” he muttered. He hung the jacket back where it belonged, adjusting the collar and sleeves so they wouldn’t wrinkle.
Still nothing.
No insult. No deflection. No awful joke about vibrators or emotional trauma. Only the sound of Lex pouring dry cereal into a Styrofoam bowl.
That either meantyes—it had beentoo much, and now Lex was going to sulk like a kicked puppy for the foreseeable future.
Or it meant Lex had liked it. More than he was willing to admit. And judging by the near purple color spreading over Lex’s face? Option B it was.
Morgan cracked open the laptop as he listened to Lex unlock the second bedroom. The dry cereal rattled violently in the bowl, as if Lex were trying to lure a skittish, invisible cat out from under the bed.
He tuned out the noise. The sing-song coaxing. Ollie’s quietthank you.
Let Lex play his little games with Ollie. Their “pet” was more hassle than he was worth.
A few minutes passed. Then Lex returned, dropping onto the bed with the sort of flop that made the entire mattress dip sideways. His long legs dangled off the edge, thumping against the floor.
He settled his head on Morgan’s knee, shuffling through the hotel-issued deck of cards he clearly hadn’t paid for at the front desk. Split. Bridge. Humming something tuneless under his breath that grated against Morgan’s focus.
Every few cards, Lex peeked up, waiting for a reaction.
None came. Morgan wasn’t about to entertain the silent treatment. The whole thing was thoroughly unnecessary, but predictable.
But, Morgan didn’t need both hands to reply to this email. Just one.
The other moved to Lex’s hair, fingers combing through. It was still damp, smelling faintly of that awful hotel shampoo—chemical citrus with an undercurrent of artificial florals.
Then the phone buzzed.
A flash of light. A name.
Kate.
Of course.
He let it ring once. Twice.
Almost let it go to voicemail.
On the third, he answered.
“Yes?”
“You’re still in London, aren’t you?” Her voice snapped down the line, clipped and formal. But there was something bristling underneath.
