Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Kafka's body was changing.
Whatever Vanitas had done had begun to surge through his veins like molten fire. You could see it happening.
The thick blue veins beneath his skin stood out darker, sharper, coursing like lightning across his biceps, snaking up his neck, pulsing visibly as though something inhuman were pushing its way up through his skin.
His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving so hard his ribs showed through his sweat-slicked skin, and his muscles flexed again and again, tensing until they looked too big for his frame.
His fingers twitched, curled like claws.
And worst of all was his gaze. Wide-eyed, feral, glittering—he stared across the room at them, not like a man, but like a beast assessing its prey.
All of them—Camila, Nina, Bella, Lyra, June, Abigaille, Olivia, Seraphina—clustered together on one end of the room, their backs practically pressed to the wall.
