The silence that settled over the mass room after the tempest was the heavy, ringing silence of an execution chamber. The high vaulted ceilings still vibrated with the phantom echo of wet friction, hoarse gasps, and the sharp, spicy musk of the Dream Well oil that clung to every surface of the freezing room.
Marcus lay slumped over the armrest of the deep leather chair, his body entirely spent. He felt like a hollowed-out vessel, his muscles throbbing with an all-encompassing, deep-seated ache that radiated from the base of his spine down to the soles of his heavy boots. The lie he had told to protect his pride had been shredded, the high-ranking administrative authority he wielded in the boardroom reduced to a puddle of honey-sweet exhaustion on the polished floorboards.
He was wasted. His core burned, the entrance to his body feeling tender, overstretched, and heavy with the residual static of Kaelan's anatomy.
