Lycus knelt beside Barbara, his sharp, angular features softened by the faint moonlight streaming through the window. His strong jawline clenched and unclenched, a visible sign of the turmoil swirling within him. His large hand, calloused from years of survival and combat, gently stroked her cheek, his touch a stark contrast to the storm raging in his mind.
Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his fingertips, her unconscious expression serene. But Lycus's eyes, glowing like molten calcite, betrayed a maelstrom of emotions—desire, confusion, and an overwhelming possessiveness that gnawed at his restraint.
He didn't know what he was doing, not entirely. All he knew was that he had to see, touch, and claim her. The voice in his mind—the primal, guttural whisper with him since his release—ur
