Evilangel
Matilde Ramos, Erik Everhard, Oliver Trunk Pic(s)
The humid air clung to her skin like a second, desperate lover as she moved through the shadows, her breath a silent ghost in the moonlit room. Every step was a deliberate act of reclamation, the soft pad of her bare feet on the cool floorboards a counterpoint to the frantic beating of her own heart. She could smell him before she saw him, that familiar scent of cheap cologne and arrogance now tinged with the sour tang of sleep. The thin sheet draped over his form rose and fell with a rhythm of utter vulnerability, a stark contrast to the violent power he had wielded hours before. Her fingers, trembling not with fear but with a fierce, focused energy, traced the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse stubble beneath her touch. This was no longer about the pain he had inflicted; it was about the exquisite control she now possessed, a silent symphony of dominance played out in the stillness. She watched the flutter of his eyelids, the subtle shift from unconsciousness to a dawning, confused awareness, and a slow, predatory smile curved her lips. Leaning down, her hair creating a dark curtain around their faces, she whispered a single, chilling promise agat his ear, her warm breath a caress that carried the weight of a thousand shattered illusions. In that suspended moment, the hunter had become the captivated prey, and her revenge was a living, breathing thing in the space between them.
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