The room didn't settle. It pulsed. Every breath, every flicker of movement carried the static hum of something broken and rearranged.
Victoria lay across my chest like a casualty—limp, wet, conquered—my cock still buried in her as if the idea of release was off-limits. Her dark hair stuck to her temples, sweat slick on her skin, but it wasn't exhaustion that hollowed her eyes. It was recognition. She'd seen the void I carved and realized she couldn't walk out of it.
Above me, Anya was trembling against the headboard, thighs quaking as the last ripples of her orgasm betrayed her body.
My face was still wet with her, chin sticky, lips tasting like surrender. She tried to prop herself on her elbows, but her arms shook too much to carry the weight. The clinical mask she wore in every room of this building was gone.
All that remained was ruin with silver eyes.
