Veylor was no longer a man; he was a wound. His spectral form pulsed with a sickly, unstable light as he watched the rhythmic violence of their coupling.
Every wet thwack of Rex's pelvis against Iris's ass felt like a blade twisting in his own ethereal gut. He tried to speak, to protest, to demand some shred of dignity, but all that came out were broken, sobbing gasps.
Rex noticed the weakness and leaned down, his lips brushing against Iris's sweat-soaked ear while his cock continued its relentless, piston-like assault.
SQUELCH. SLAP. SQUELCH.
"Listen to him, Iris," Rex taunted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the bed itself. "Listen to your pathetic hero crying like a child!"
"Does he sound like a savior to you?"
"Does he sound like someone worth remembering?"
Iris's head thrashed against the pillow, her hips bucking upward to meet every devastating thrust. Her eyes, still marked with those obscene pink hearts, flickered toward Veylor with nothing but contempt.
