Xavier stepped into his apartment. The stench hit first—iron, rot, and sweat. Blood pooled across the tiles, bodies sprawled like broken dolls. The walls, the furniture, the ceiling—it all wore the stain of death.
He stood there for a moment, surveying the carnage, then walked to the kitchen. A clean knife gleamed under the dim light. He picked it up, the cold weight heavy in his palm, and called out, "Lyra."
A door creaked open. Lyra padded out, hair still damp, clinging to her neck, her new clothes neat and dry. She looked refreshed, like she'd just washed off the stench of slaughter.
Xavier's gaze fixed on her. Too hard. Too long. For a second, his thoughts weren't about corpses or blood. They slipped. His body betrayed him. He clenched his jaw, trying to will the heat down, but it was still there, evident and inconvenient.
Lyra was indeed someone Xavier found attractive from the first time he had seen her in the prison.
Lyra tilted her head, sharp eyes narrowing. "What?"
