"Tell me if it hurts anywhere, I'll help you with anything you need." Sylvaris held a cloth soaked in alcohol, gently wiping the blood off her face.
The cloth dragged across her cheek slowly, as if his fingers were afraid to hurt her further — and truthfully, they were. There was a nasty split on her cheekbone, raw and angry, a reminder that Arathor hadn't held back in the slightest. He had struck like an animal, without pause or mercy, and now, Sylvaris had brought his stepmother to a private room tucked away from the rest of the manor — a place rarely visited, a guest room meant for quiet, for recovery.
But today… Today, he had other intentions. He wouldn't make a move. Not yet. He wanted to see how far she would unravel. How far she would fall. How deep she would slip into desire before he slid between her legs like sin itself.
