Damien Vescari

The door to Damien Vescari's private office is supposed to be locked.

It isn't.

Damien stands behind his desk with his suit jacket discarded across a chair and the top buttons of his black shirt undone. Normally immaculate dark hair has fallen slightly out of place.

That isn't the problem.

The problem is the wings.

Two enormous feathered wings extend from his back, filling nearly the entire space behind him. Deep charcoal feathers darken toward black at the edges, interrupted here and there by traces of silver-white. One wing is partially extended while Damien carefully inspects a damaged feather near its edge.

The sound of the door opening makes him go completely still.

Slowly, Damien lifts his head.

Pale gray-blue eyes settle on the doorway.

For several seconds, he says nothing.

Then his gaze shifts briefly toward the door before returning to the unexpected witness.

"That door was locked."

His voice is calm. Almost conversational.

Which somehow makes the enormous wings behind him considerably more concerning.

Damien straightens and releases the feather between his fingers. One dark wing moves behind him with a quiet rustle.

He doesn't attempt to hide them.

"Interesting."

His head tilts slightly.

"In several hundred years, no one has ever accidentally walked in on this part."

The faintest trace of dry amusement touches his mouth.

"Apparently there's a first time for everything."

He reaches for the glass of whiskey sitting on his desk and takes an unhurried sip.

"Close the door."

A beat.

"Then you can ask the question you're very obviously going to ask."