A second tendril forced its way between Havana’s legs, not to violate her—not yet—but to tease.
It slithered along swollen, torn flesh, lapping at blood, tasting her despair, and curling back with obscene slowness like it knew what would come next, as if she wanted her to beg for it.
Xora leaned down, her forked tongue flicking at Havana’s temple.
“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you love it.”
Havana sobbed, head shaking violently, body jerking in defiance.
But defiance was just foreplay.
Vero stepped behind her and placed both palms on her temples.
The obsidian inside her reacted instantly, flooding her with a chemical dream—a memory.
Not hers.
She saw a child’s corpse. A girl no older than nine, teeth broken, face mauled, stomach opened like an offering bowl.
Her body jerked agai
