The red light of The Velvet Void was a pulsating, living thing, casting long, bloody shadows across Kaelen's face. The subsonic bass of the music thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through my shins, matching the frantic, uncoordinated rhythm of my own heart. I stood there, trapped between his knees, staring down at the man who had built my paradise and then burned it to the ground.
Kaelen's hand on my thigh was like a hot iron. His fingers were splayed wide, his grip tight enough to bruise, his thumb tracing slow, agonizing circles against the silk of my dress. It was a claim. A brand. Even in his shattered state, even with his mind drifting through a chemical haze, he was telling every predator in this room that I was his property.
But as I looked into his eyes—those hazy, clouded mirrors of grey and fractured green—I didn't see the Master of the Syndicate. I saw a man who was drowning.
