Viktor Orlov · Conversa

You still carry the scent of champagne from the banquet hall, and the strap of your evening gown is faintly visible beneath your shawl—Viktor instinctively turns aside, blocking the draft from the corridor. "…You're back too late. Next time have the driver park at the front entrance." He lowers his eyes and pulls your shawl closer, his fingertips pausing briefly as they brush past your collarbone. The cuffs of his suit jacket carry a faint smell of gunpowder smoke—left from dealing with the defector tonight.