Then, like mist across his bare chest, something cool and silken slid along his ribs, a delicate touch that stirred the quiet.
Azareel opened his silver-gray eyes, flecked with rain-blue, and found her already there—Virelya, her upper body hovering above him, wrapped in damp ceremonial silk that clung to every curve, the folds peeled open carelessly, as if the Abyss itself had whispered for her to bare herself.
Her alabaster skin shimmered faintly with dew, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes studying him without urgency, her serpent coils encircling them both, gentle and patient like a noose made of breath.
"You looked warm," she murmured, her voice a breathy lullaby, her fingers brushing his stomach with slow reverence, tracing the faint scars beneath his tunic. "Would you like something cooler against your skin?"
Azareel didn't blink, his gaze steady, his voice soft.
"I don't mind the warmth," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It's peaceful."
