Lilian’s POV
The crystal decanter was significantly lighter than it had been two hours ago.
So was my head.
I was currently lying on a velvet chaise lounge in the drawing room, staring at the ceiling and tracing the intricate plaster moldings with one finger. The room was spinning, a slow, lazy rotation that felt less like nausea and more like being on a very expensive, very antique carousel. The terrifying “poacher” situation had faded into a dull, buzzing background noise, drowned out effectively by the amber warmth of Alexander’s whiskey.
“Lethal force,” I giggled to the empty room, lifting the heavy crystal bottle in a mock toast to a portrait of a dour-looking DeLuca ancestor on the far wall. “What a drama queen. You guys are all so… intense.”
The ancestor glared back, his oil-pa
