The first light was not natural.
It hummed to life with a sterile flick—white and soft, yet pitiless in its exposure. A cold breath of air crept into the chamber from hidden vents, dissolving the warmth that had clung to skin, sweat, and silk.
The bodies on the bed groaned faintly, limbs twitching, tails shifting.
Selene murmured, one silver eye opening, only to squint against the light and roll back into the crook of a warm thigh. Risa's legs kicked once, a sleepy tail smacking the sheet. Amphitrite winced when her muscles clenched.
Nikita groaned and tried to roll away—but the soreness in her hips betrayed her.
None of them rose.
The scent still lingered. Rich and heavy, soaked into every fabric, every breath. Salt and silk, blood and perfume, the unmistakable tang of sex, layered and ripe. It clung to the walls like a memory that refused to fade.
Then came the sound of heels—soft, even, controlled.
Three women entered.
