Elias froze, his chest heaving like he’d just run a mile. His fists shook at his sides, knuckles white, sweat dripping down his forehead and sliding along his jaw. For a second he thought Kael might actually gut him right there for the outburst.
But Kael only chuckled, low and dark. He reached with one hand—never slowing his hips buried deep in Lyra—and grabbed a mop leaning against the broken wall. With a lazy flick, he tossed it across the room. It clattered at Elias’s feet.
"Survive, Elias," Kael said, voice like steel wrapped in smoke. "Do your job, don’t die, and you’ll be fine."
Elias stared at the mop, jaw hanging. His voice cracked. "This—this is worse than death!"
Lyra moaned louder on Kael’s lap, deliberately grinding down harder. "Mmm, don’t be dramatic, little boy," she tea
