Lor stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing off his skin, his hair damp and tousled, clinging to his forehead in dark, messy strands.
He dried his hands on the towel, sighing with a kind of worn satisfaction that only came after truly excessive sin, his lean frame relaxed but still humming with the ritual's afterglow.
His shirt clung coolly to his damp chest as he buttoned it back up, half-tucking it into the soft fabric of his trousers, the belt hanging loose around his hips.
He paused by the mirror, adjusted his collar, and gave himself a look—eyebrow raised, lips curled into a smirk that said.
Still got it.
He turned to leave the master bedroom, its air heavy with dust and old perfume, the untouched bed and shuttered windows casting a private hush.
But he hesitated, his hazel eyes flicking back to the nightstand, where that damn sliver of parchment still poked out like a whispered dare.
His curiosity prickled, a nagging pull that drowned out his caution.
