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Timaios’ house was everything Ctirad might have expected from someone as rich as Tim Kaprinsky, and yet nothing at all he expected. It was a big house on a big lot in the middle of the city, an easy four acres of property with such good landscaping that you hardly noticed you could almost never see more than three feet in any direction, and the house itself was almost completely obscured from the road and all three of its neighbors.

The inside, though – or, at least, from the garage to the stairs upward – looked comfortable. It was more spartan than opulent, as long as you didn’t think too much about what some of the materials cost, and the sitting room he got a glimpse of was done in overstuffed upholstery that actually looked designed to sit in.

“Sal,” Timaios asked of his driver, “can you tell Danny to send up food for two? A real meal, but keep it relatively bland. I’m not sure how much good food our Ctirad here has had in the recent past.”

None was a safe bet, but he hadn’t been asked, so he didn’t answer. Timaios’ hand was on the small of his back, steering him as effectively as if he’d had him on a leash.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sal. This way, Ctirad.” The back stairs – they had to be back stairs, any place this big had to have a grand staircase somewhere – were carpeted in something soft under Ctirad’s boots, and he stumbled for a minute, thinking he ought to have taken his shoes off.

“Easy,” Timaios murmured. On the stairway, he was practically pressed against Ctirad’s side. It was a warm feeling, pleasant, and yet distracting as well. “You’re fine. Just up these stairs and, here, to the left.”

To the left took Ctirad to a smallish door, just barely big enough to allow for the horns he couldn’t currently see on Timaios. He made a questioning noise in his throat, not quite trusting him with words.

“There, yes. It’s okay.”

He hadn’t been this skittish in a long time. Then again, it had been a long time since he’d had a new Owner. He opened the door.

The room inside was – well, it looked lived-in. Someone had tidied, he thought, and made the bed, but there was a stack of books on one nightstand, a tablet and a laptop on the other, and three pairs of shoes under the bed.

Timaios’ bedroom had no mirrors, and the wide wall of windows was covered with blinds and curtains. The decor was expensive understated wood and neutrals in light colors, except something in purple silk thrown across the desk chair.

“Steady, steady. All right, my lovely man, I’ve got you in my bedroom.”

All thoughts of dinner fled at the rumble in Timaios’ voice.

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