Aiden drew his hands away from the saintess with a slow, deliberate motion—almost gentle, but not quite. The moment his palms left her skin, the air in the room shifted. It felt thinner, stretched, as if her unconscious breathing had been holding the atmosphere together.
The faint scent of his blood still clung to her lips, faintly metallic and warm, mixing with the soft perfume she naturally carried. A strange contrast—purity and corruption intertwining in a sleeping girl's breath.
He rose to his feet, boots whispering against the carpet, the weight of the night gathering behind his shoulders like a cloak.
Sabrina and Catherine stood behind him, their silhouettes framed by the lamplight. Their shadows stretched long, almost touching his.
"You two," he exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "really gave me a handful of work."
He didn't sound angry—he almost never did—but there was a dry ache underneath his tone, the kind born from chaos layered on chaos.
