With his hired blades pledging allegiance, Demontae's hesitation evaporated. Gold-capped teeth flashed as he snarled, "Make it happen, boys—turn that punk into sidewalk art!"
"As for these treasures," he purred, fingers twitching toward Lirael and Samai, "deliver them pristine. Not a single hair out of place... unless I'm the one pulling it."
The moment his gaze locked onto the women, his pupils dilated like a junkie catching the first whiff of premium-grade cocaine. Lirael's regal poise and Samai's delicate allure hit him like a sucker punch—these weren't just pretty faces but once-in-an-era masterpieces that made kings abdicate thrones.
Let's be real: he stood zero chance against their nuclear-grade appeal. The hunger to possess them burned through his veins. The mere thought of these
