Page 44 of Lustling

It wasn’t his usual ice-veined arrogance, the kind that dripped from every syllable like he thought the world owed him reverence. No. Tonight, it was something else. Something raw. Tight. Like he was barely holding it together. Like the truth had clawed its way too close to the surface and he hadn’t figured out how to shove it back down yet.

Which, of course, meant I had to see the damage with my own eyes.

Cassiel and I arrive just past midnight. The door creaks open, and the scent hits me first—ripe and cloying. Sex. Sweat. Blood. Death.

It’s thick in the air, sticky and metallic, coating the back of my throat like syrup and rust. The kind of death that isn’t clean. The kind that’staken, not given.

A kill soaked in hunger.

My boots stick slightly to the hardwood as we step inside. There’s a quiet crackle beneath my heel—something brittle. Something broken.

And then we see him.

Shawn.

Laid out like a fucking offering. Pale, drained, hollowed. His limbs limp. His mouth slightly parted. His cock still out like he died mid-climax, some final, desperate moan caught in his throat that never made it to air.

He looks ridiculous.

I stare at him for a beat, the grotesque comedy of it settling in.

“Fucked to death,” I mutter, letting out a low chuckle. “Damn. What a way to go.”

Deimos doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even blink. Just paces behind us like a caged animal, radiating tension in slow, rolling waves.

Cassiel, ever the moral compass, crosses his arms and frowns at the corpse. “You’re okay with this?”

He’s talking to Deimos, but I answer instead. “What? The girl’s got talent.”

And it’s true.Realtalent.

Lillien—the little lost lamb we dragged from the dark—has teeth now. And claws. She didn’t just feed. Shetook. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry afterward or look for a moral escape hatch.

She just opened herself up and drank until there was nothing left.

That’s not just instinct. That’sbirthright.

Deimos rubs a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the night from his skin. It doesn’t work. He keeps looking at the body. Not with horror. Not even with disgust.

Something else. Something worse.

Possession.

I grin, staring at the corpse. Shawn’s skin is sallow, paper-thin, his cheeks sunken. His chest doesn’t rise. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’tfight. He’s beyond saving, and gods, doesn’t that just paint a beautiful picture?

I imagine her there—Lillien—knees bracketing his ribs, hair falling like a veil, eyes glazed over with need. Her mouth parted in something not quite pain, not quite ecstasy. Her body moving with a rhythm she didn’t even know she knew. Pulling him apart thread by thread, breath by breath.

Not with mercy. Withpurpose.

My cock stirs. Not with jealousy. But with awe.

“Planning to keep him as a trophy?” I ask, glancing toward Deimos. “Could mount him on the wall. Maybe dress him up first.”

He stops pacing just long enough to glare. If he had any real energy left, he’d rip my head clean off. But right now? He’s too torn.

That makes itbetter.

“No? Alright,” I say lightly. “So we’re burning him. Boring, but fine.”