Beside him, Astra curled inward, her limbs tangled in torn sheets. Her hair clung to her damp skin, wild and knotted, and her wild eyes were dull with tears, staring at the stone ceiling above.
The room bore the scars of their violent activity; claw marks on stone, blood smeared like art across sheets. There was no tenderness here – only desperation, destruction, and the undeniable scent of war disguised as desire.
"So, it's her," he mumbled. "It has always been her."
He finally found out the reason behind his sudden heat cycles.
"Who are you talking about?" Astra asked, her voice hoarse, brittle like cracked glass. She dragged her battered body up against his.
The masked man didn't look at her. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight, eyes stormy with evil and mischief. For a moment, he didn't answer.
Suddenly, he chuckled. Then he roared with unbridled laughter.
