The heavy, black-oak doors creaked open with a slow, ominous groan, and Thorn Theodore stepped into the dining sanctum. He paused at the threshold, his nostrils flaring as he caught the sharp, metallic scent of the Sovereign's blood in the air—a scent that shouldn't exist in a room occupied by a mere human servant.
His amber eyes immediately locked onto Hannah, who was still sprawled on the marble floor, gasping for air, her hair matted with sweat and the ruins of the poisoned meal scattered around her. As he approached, his gaze didn't fall on her face, but lower. The loose tunic she wore had shifted further during her convulsions, and Thorn's eyes lingered on her exposed cleavage with a raw, undisguised lust. He didn't look at her with the clinical detachment of Hebner; he looked at her like a predator staring at a piece of prime meat he intended to claim the moment the Master turned his back.
