"That's not important," he demurred, rubbing his brow.
He paused, buckling under the understated weight of Oleksei's stare.
He shook his head.
"Antony...returned to Caesar. Eventually."
His voice was low, and reflected the echoes of inevitability.
Oleksei looked like a gangster, there was no mistaking it now. The pugilistic shoulders and stance, the pugnacious brow and jaw, the straight, hard mouth. Low brows, the slightest hint of a cleft in his chin, the tilt of his eyes.
"He picked well, I'll give him that. You're devoted."
Oleksei was pacing slightly, halting, glowering. No longer frenetic, he seemed uncertain, and restless in his conflict. Yet he lingered.
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"That's not important," he demurred, rubbing his brow.
He paused, buckling under the understated weight of Oleksei's stare.
He shook his head.
"Antony...returned to Caesar. Eventually."
His voice was low, and reflected the echoes of inevitability.
Oleksei looked like a gangster, there was no mistaking it now. The pugilistic shoulders and stance, the pugnacious brow and jaw, the straight, hard mouth. Low brows, the slightest hint of a cleft in his chin, the tilt of his eyes.
"He picked well, I'll give him that. You're devoted."
Oleksei was pacing slightly, halting, glowering. No longer frenetic, he seemed uncertain, and restless in his conflict. Yet he lingered.
"Devoted, unlike any hired gun I've ever seen."
Liadov's eyes slatted, after a moment.
"Why is that?"