Titania's brows pinched together in deep, pained furrows, creating little creases at the bridge of her nose, while fresh tears kept welling up and overflowing, lashes clumping together in wet spikes.
Every few seconds a soft, broken hiccup escaped her throat. Not loud, just enough to make her whole frame shudder against mine.
She wasn't shouting or screaming.
Just crying in this heartbreakingly silent way, tears drenching my face, my neck, the hollow of my collarbone, as if all the centuries of buried grief were finally leaking out through her eyes.
I let it flow for a long moment.
Like some kind of sadist, watching her like this—small, vulnerable, completely open—started stirring something deeper inside me than raw lust.
It was real feelings. The kind that settle heavy in your chest and refuse to leave.
