The night was a velvet shroud, and Lor slipped through it like a ghost.
He drifted through the open window of his loft, weightless as a sigh, his bare feet grazing the cool wooden floor with no sound to betray his return.
The golden mask still clung on to his face, silk robe fluttered around his lean frame its hem stained with the night's indulgences.
Sweat, perfume, and something far more primal clung to his skin, a heady perfume of debauchery that made his pulse thrum with wicked satisfaction.
No creak.
No witnesses.
Just moonlight pooling on the floor, painting his shadow in silver.
He stood for a moment, chest heaving, the pulse of the Midnight Bloom still coursing through his veins like a lover's caress—wild, intoxicating, relentless.
The festival of flesh and pleasure had been a blur of masked faces, silken gasps, and forbidden touches.
Toren's wife, her lips trembling as she knelt before him.
Lia's mother, her voice breaking as she begged for more.
