Her pale hand stretched forward.
The movement was unhurried, graceful, carrying the terrifying elegance of a viper sliding through grass. Her delicate fingers reached out toward his groin.
Cruxius didn't flinch. He didn't pull back. He simply stood there, breathing heavily, entirely exposed.
Her hand closed over his cock.
'Squelch.'
It was still thick, heavy, and completely coated in the obscene mixture of his own sticky white seed and the bright red blood she had drawn from him. The physical contrast was jarring—the freezing, marble-cold temperature of her skin against his boiling, violated flesh.
She grabbed it firmly, her thumb resting directly over the twin puncture wounds left by her fangs.
And then, the magic flared.
It wasn't a spell cast with words. It was an inherent, biological command of her bloodline.
Cruxius gasped, his abdominal muscles tightening sharply as an intense, rushing sensation flooded his groin.
