Isolde's body was slick with sweat, her breathing still ragged, her vision blurred from the euphoric high still crashing through her.
Even through the haze, she could see Severin grinning in satisfaction as he held her in his lap, proud of what they had just done in front of Rhea's corpse.
Stray strands of her hair fell across her face, and Severin gently tucked them behind her ear. His fingers traced down, brushing her sweat-drenched, tear-streaked cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying.
Isolde couldn't tell if the tears came from sadness—grief at becoming a killer—or from the twisted relief and sick pleasure of finally unleashing her rage. Or maybe it was a shame. Disgust. Because she was aroused and aroused after killing someone.
"Good girl," Severin whispered, his voice low and hoarse. "You completed your first mission. You've earned your reward. Now tell me… what do you want from me, my little devil?"
