The corridor to the private rooms was quietly carpeted, muffling sound. The air smelled less of alcohol and more of some kind of neutral cleanser. The doors were thick, each with a small brass plaque bearing a tasteful moon symbol instead of a number.
The server opened one door, dipped her head, and withdrew.
The room beyond was an affront to every carefully controlled aesthetic bone in Evalyne's body.
Soft red lights bathed everything, turning skin and fabric the same shade of almost-sin. A large bed dominated the center, covered in black sheets that gleamed under the glow. A couch hugged one wall. Shelves held objects in tidy rows—bottles, boxes, things with straps and buckles she did not let herself identify too closely.
And in the middle, on his knees on the bed, hands resting on h
