After a few moments, Myra lifted her head, chest still heaving, and looked straight at Lucian standing frozen in the doorway. A low, amused laugh rolled out of her — lazy, satisfied, and completely shameless.
"Alright boys," she purred, voice thick and husky. "Show's over. Out."
Both guys scrambled off the bed like they'd been electrocuted, snatching clothes from the floor in a frantic mess of limbs and half-buttoned shirts.
One of them—tall, dark-haired, looked vaguely noble—winced as he passed Lucian and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Good luck, man."
Then he was gone. Out the door.
Lucian just stood there, staring at where the man had been.
Good luck?
GOOD LUCK?!
What does that even MEAN?
The door closed behind them.
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
I'm going to die. This is how I die.
Myra remained on the bed, pale skin gleaming in the morning light. Red marks scattered across her shoulders. Her chest. Her—
Don't look. Don't look. Eyes UP.
