The steam from the heated pool swirled between them like a phantom, blurring the lines between reality and the psychological trap Luca had painstakingly set. Malcolm stepped out of the water, his boots clicking heavily against the wet stone. Each step he took toward the shivering boy on the tiles was a battle against his own instincts.
Luca lay curled on his side, his skin—which he had manually manipulated using a fraction of his energy to appear flushed and bruised, vibrated with a false tremor. To the human eye, he looked like a broken porcelain doll, discarded and fragile.
"Stop it," Malcolm growled, though his voice lacked its usual granite-like stability. He stood over Luca, looking down at the pale, wet figure. "Stop throwing yourself at me, Vane. Why is it that every time I turn around, you are there? Why are you always behaving so... weirdly... toward me?"
