The High Priestess lay draped over the shattered altar, her bronze-scaled body glistening under the emerald glow. Her breath was ragged, her spine arched like a bow under the relentless rhythm Allen had set. Each thrust reverberated through the temple's foundations, as if the stone itself trembled at his audacity. Her claws scraped furrows into the marble, desperate to anchor herself against the storm consuming her.
Allen didn't slow. He couldn't. The heat coursing through his veins was no longer mortal—it was divine theft, a hunger so vast it could swallow gods whole. He had tasted her defiance, her venom-laced pride, and now he was turning it to ash with every punishing surge of his hips. The sound of their union was obscene, wet and raw, echoing like a war drum announcing the death of sanctity.
