'[ Host can derive holy powers from Consort. Proceed Y/N ]'
He dismissed the window.
Slow.
One finger.
The purple-edged glow collapsed like smoke and was gone.
He looked down at her.
At Meera.
Her eyes had not recovered from the rolled-back state — they were coming down from it now, the whites receding, the dark irises finding themselves again, finding the lamp-light and the room and the man standing above her with his cock still at her face. The ahegao still hanging off her. The jaw still stretched wide. Her saliva running from the corners of her mouth in two continuous, thin threads — dripping off her chin onto the carpet in the slow, steady way of something that had stopped being managed.
Her hair — ruined. The grip-ruined quality of hair that had been used as reins for the last twenty minutes, entire sections of it pulled into directions it had never agreed to. The dark mass of it, damp at the roots with sweat.
