Viktor's thumb moved across her nipple.
Milk. Through the fabric — the faint, immediate wet of it, the small, dark bloom of moisture at the fabric's surface where her body was making its opinions known.
She flinched.
"Hn~— please—"
Viktor looked at Aaron.
"Mm?"
Aaron was looking at his own cock again.
The specific, mounting, horrified fury of a man whose identity is substantially built on a specific physical function and who is watching that function fail in real time while another man gropes a woman in his own establishment.
"Kill him," he said.
Two guards.
The movement was immediate — the trained, purposeful motion of men who have done violence before and are not conflicted about it.
Viktor didn't move.
They moved.
Then they stopped.
Not by choice. The aura blade — the same atomic-level precision that had compressed compounds from a dying herb — moved through them in the specific, comprehensive, entirely non-theatrical way that absolute ability tends to work.
