In here, the air is thick with eucalyptus, the walls shimmering with condensation. A single massage table dominates the center of the room, flanked by shelves of oils and salts and who the hell knows what else.
Emil starts babbling about hot stone therapy. “When we begin the treatment, you’ll see how—”
“There will be no treatment today.”
Emil and I both look at Sasha in utter confusion. “P-pardon, sir?” stammers the poor man.
Sasha answers him, but he’s looking at me the whole time. “We don’t need a masseuse. I’ll handle this myself.”
Then he ushers Emil out in a way that’s both polite and undeniable at the same time. How he manages that little balancing act is a mystery to me, because I’m still gawking back and forth between the swiftly closing door and the lone massage table and al
