From the shadows of the scorched trees, Dracula arrived in a blur of motion, crimson energy rippling off his body like an untamed storm as he halted just short of the clearing.
And what he saw stopped him cold.
There, under the amber glow of the dying sun, Lilith—his Lilith—stood with her robes barely clinging to her frame. Her pale skin caught the last golden rays, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. And behind her, gripping her ass with an arrogant familiarity, stood Lucius.
Dracula's breath caught in his throat.
Lucius's fingers dug into Lilith's flesh as if it belonged to him, and Lilith... Lilith wasn't resisting. No. She was laughing. Her moan was soft, sultry, filled with amusement—and pleasure.
Dracula's vision blurred, not from any physical wound, but from the raw emotional collapse occurring in real time. His heart, cold and ancient, threatened to shatter under the weight of betrayal.
