"Poison," Alaric said coldly.
The second man bolted.
Too late.
Lucius appeared from nowhere, blocking the door like a shadow given form. He wasn't smiling.
"I hate interruptions during dessert," he said calmly.
There was a crash. Chairs scraped. A fight exploded in less than a second.
The first attacker twisted, dagger flashing—but Alaric ducked, pivoted, and elbowed the man across the face. Blood flew. The man dropped to his knees, dazed.
Lucius handled the other with grim efficiency—an umbrella strike to the gut, then a vicious slap with the hilt.
The bakery owner came running in, screaming, "My tables!"
Alaric leaned down, grabbed the dazed poisoner by the collar, and pressed their foreheads together—intimate, threatening.
"If you were desperate," he whispered, "you should've begged. Not died trying."
He dropped the man like a stone and turned to Salviana, who stood calmly by the window, her plate untouched.
"Are you ok?" Alaric asked slightly frantic.
