Raven stood over the bed, his shadow a dark, jagged monolithic shape cast against the pale, trembling form of Min-jung.
The air in the room was thick enough to chew—a suffocating cocktail of metallic blood, the sharp musk of fresh cum, and those purple-pink pheromones that made every breath feel like a hit of pure adrenaline.
Hana, the "loyal thick fuck-wife," lay beside them, a broken masterpiece of flesh.
Her ass was still puckered and leaking, twitching in the rhythmic aftershocks of the load he'd just buried in her belly.
She looked dead to the world, her mind having retreated into the merciful fog of exhaustion, her chest rising and falling in heavy, staggered heaves.
Min-jung stared at her mother, then up at Raven. Her heart was a trapped bird hammering against her ribs. She looked like thick, fat prey—ripe, succulent, and utterly cornered.
"She... she's not..." Min-jung's voice was a thready whisper, her eyes darting back to Hana's limp form.
