but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have extensive experience with the subject matter.”
“Is that right?” Cosima chuckled. “Well then by all means, give us a number. I want to hear of this experience.”
Flynn squinted, thinking. “Conservative estimate? Maybe…fifty?”
Raphael snorted, but Cosima continued with intrigue. “Fifty women? It’s blasphemy to spread falsehoods with The Savior, you know.”
“I’d never dream of such a thing,” Flynn said.
“How many of these women were paid for?”
“It’s no fun if it’s paid for. Doesn’t feel like much of a conquest.”
“So what am I to you, then?” Cosima simpered. “Another conquest to be had?”
“God no. You’re not just any woman, You’re a cut above. Two cuts. Ten.” Flynn bowed his head. “I risk my life to serve You, always.”
Cosima nodded approvingly, and Flynn basked in Her gaze before turning to Tobias. “How about you? How many broads have you bedded?”
Tobias fiddled with his food, unimpressed. “None of your concern.”
Flynn laughed. “Good God, the Artist is pure! This handsome man? I can’t believe it!”
“What makes you say that?” Raphael said.
“Only a pure man would refuse the question.”
“And only an inadequate man would boast of his conquests,” Tobias scoffed.
The table erupted in laughter, save for Flynn and Tobias, who scowled at one another.
Cosima gave Tobias’s hand a squeeze. “Play nice, you two. Like rams butting heads, I swear. Put those horns away, save them for the competition.”
A groan bubbled in Tobias’s throat, but he swallowed it down. His gaze floated back to Leila, barely catching the hem of her dress as she glided out of sight. Sighing, he turned back to the table; Cosima, Flynn, and even Kaleo were lost in conversation, while Raphael drowned himself in wine—and Drake was nowhere to be found.
Where’s Drake?
His gut heaved. Drake stalked from the atrium, heading down the path Leila had taken, and Tobias tore from his seat and followed.
“Tobias?”
He ignored Raphael, his eyes trained on the Dragon. Drake disappeared around the corner, so Tobias moved faster, fueled by his rampant anxieties. Spilling into a corridor, he staggered to an abrupt halt, frantically glancing from side to side; the walls were a familiar red and gold, but the path ahead was empty.
No Drake.
A crash sounded, coming from the far end of the corridor—the gallery. Barreling ahead, he plowed through the doorway, stumbling amid shards of toppled ceramics, of shattered crystal. His heart shot into his throat; Drake had Leila pinned to the wall, and Tobias grabbed a vase, smashing it against the back of his head.
Drake staggered away, sending Leila crumpling to the floor. Tobias slammed Drake into a table and gripped his throat, hoping to choke the life out of him, to watch him die slowly. Grunting, Drake pushed Tobias off him with ease, then pounded his fist into the pit of Tobias’s gut.
Waves of nausea coursed through him. Before he could recover, Drake shoved him against the wall, jabbing his gut once more. The impact was explosive, but the burn of adrenaline was far more potent, growing, breathing. With a strength even he hadn’t anticipated, Tobias took hold of Drake and threw him to the floor.
As Drake made his way to his feet, Tobias punched him in the jaw, sending blood shooting from his mouth like a geyser. Drake stared back at him, his lips stained red, and the anger in his eyes morphed to shock—a feeling they shared.
Drake dipped beneath Tobias’s next assault, more aggravated with each attempt. Another swing and another miss, and Drake seized Tobias’s throat, digging his fingers into his flesh.
“Stop it!” Leila’s screams echoed off the walls, giving him hope; she was screaming, and thus she was alive. Refueled with purpose, he grabbed Drake’s shoulders and kneed him in the gut.
Tobias sucked in a gasping breath, though he didn’t revel in the relief. Drake clutched his stomach, and this brief moment of weakness was likely all Tobias had to work with. His eyes darted across the gallery, passing over the Dragon, the shattered glass, Leila’s blade. The blade. With one quick swoop, he plucked it from the floor and swung it at Drake. The Dragon dodged, but not soon enough; the blade swiped across his ear, slicing it from his skull.
Drake roared as he clung to his temple, streams of red spilling between his fingers. Fuming, he curled his free hand into a readied fist.
The door flung open. “What the—?” Faun gaped at the three before her, then down at the glass and blood. “What’s going on? I heard screaming.”
The three were