By midnight, the wind had learned to speak. It whistled and roared, flinging grit and the tang of rusted metal through the shattered greenhouse crowning the old tower block.
In the makeshift lounge, an old mattress and a tangle of woolly blankets, Felicity's laughter high, wild, just on the edge of terrified, spilled out like a dare to the city below.
From his corner, Voss watched it all.
The glass wall was a deliberate cruelty: nothing but a smoke-dark sky, a fractal of broken neon, and the show inside. Victor had dragged her here, hand gripping the delicate bones of her wrist, but now he only held her loosely, as if the real threat was her leaving. The man's bulk was almost comic against the dainty nerves of Felicity's frame, but Victor cradled her like she was made of explosives and spun sugar.
Her skirt flashed white up her thigh, shocking even Voss, who had seen a hundred girls stripped and bloody in the fighting pits.
Victor's huge hand was under it, no, inside her, he realised, as Felicity's hips bucked against his wrist with a ferocity that bordered on violence. Victor's other hand wound through her hair, guiding her cheek up against his mouth, baring the tender column of her throat.
Voss's skin was suddenly too tight, his nerves skittering. Victor didn't bother hiding his face; the hunger, the possessive glee, was for anyone to witness. With every roll of his fingers, he twisted Felicity's slim body tighter, and Voss could see the tremors fluttering down her thighs, the tail swishing unselfconsciously between her knees.
Voss braced his knuckles against the ledge, watching, letting want gather in his gut. He felt no rage—just the old order: the strong take what they want, the rest wait their turn.
The animal in him understood it perfectly. So he bided his time, not blinking, letting the ache in his own groin throb into something hot and bright. He was hard enough to hurt, but he didn't move, just watched, greed gnawing him hollow.
Felicity made little mewling noises now—more animal than girl—her hands clawing at Victor's shoulders. Her head tipped back, mouth an "O" as she came, convulsing so hard Victor held her up with both arms. He laughed, deep and low, as if the sound belonged to the earth.
Only then did Victor look up, straight across the glass to Voss.
Their eyes locked. No challenge, no warning, just an invitation. Yours, if you can take her.
Voss's breath left him in a hiss. He unbuckled his pants, slowly, not even caring if Victor or Felicity saw him.
He stroked himself, the sound buried under the howl of the wind and the desperate panting from the centre of the room. He watched Victor withdraw his fingers, glistening, and bring them to Felicity's lips. She sucked, dazed. Her ears, those perfect, ridiculous fennec ears, twitched at the taste.
Voss imagined what came next. He'd walk in when Victor had fucked her limp, when she was too spent to protest, and drag her into darkness and make her remember him. He'd bite her shoulder and listen to her scream.
All the old rules were gone. Only hunger, need, and the drive to remake the world in your image remained.
Victor stood, Felicity draped across his arms like a flag. He bent to whisper something in her ear, and she giggled, hand trailing down his chest. Then her gaze slid sideways, all the way to Voss's shadowed corner. Her lips parted, and for a second, Voss thought she might cry out for him.
Instead, she just smiled sweetly, slyly. Daring him.
He let the wind carry his answer: a long, guttural hiss, barely human. He knew when the time came, she'd open her arms for him, too.
He zipped himself, swallowed the metallic taste of his own need, and waited. The stars over the city pulsed with his wild, indifferent heart.
The future wasn't written, but it was going to be filthy.