Page 97 of The Sun He Buried

Everything inside the room goes quiet.

Oh, no.

I put my hand flat on the door because apologizing through a gap would be worse.

This isn’t true.

I push it open anyway.

The room is a study. I work that out from the shelves, desk, ledgers, and a cup left half-finished on the corner.

The woman is sitting on the desk.

Her dark dress is open down the front. The skirt has gathered high on her thighs, and a tall man stands between them with one hand beneath the fabric.

His other hand is closed around the back of her neck.

Purple light fills his right eye.

He has long hair braided back from shaved sides. His shirt is on the floor. Lean muscle moves across his back when his fingers shift beneath the woman’s skirt.

She gasps and grips his bare shoulder.

He’s feeding from her.

I’ve never seen an emotion feeder feed. I’ve heard about the peace afterward and the people who return for it, but stories didn’t include this part.

The silver is against her throat.

No teeth. No wound. Silver rests against her skin while his hand holds the base of her neck.

The purple in his eye deepens.

The woman’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. Her back arches, pushing her open dress aside. One breast presses against his chest.

He draws in a slow breath.

Her grip loosens.

The change moves through her by inches. Her shoulders drop. Her head tips back. The lines beside her mouth ease until she’s resting against him with a soft smile.

She asked for this. Asked for his hands too.

Black runes cover the silver. They cross where his mouth should be. Fresh blood sits along the edge where the metal meets his skin.

He lifts his head.

The woman follows his gaze. Her grey eyes find me and hold. Clear. Present.

She looks down at his hand beneath her skirt, then back at me.

“I don’t mind an audience.” Her smile is loose. “Close the door if you stay. It’s cold.”

I don’t close it.

Something moves behind the silver.

I know that eye.