Three days had passed like a fever dream.
Adam stood at the edge of Vinéa's territory, his fingers unconsciously tracing the spot on his collarbone where Luna's head had rested during their stolen moments of peace. The memory of her warmth lingered—a gentle counterweight to the cold fury that had consumed him in the abyss. She had worked her particular magic on more than just his body; somehow, in those quiet hours between whispered conversations and tender touches, she had begun to coax back pieces of the demon he used to be.
Not all of them. Perhaps not even most. But enough that when he looked at the small band of demons who had chosen to follow him into this madness, he felt something beyond the hollow satisfaction of commanding tools for his revenge.
