Lor leaned back, watching the world shift gears—day stepping off, evening stepping on, the sa actors in new costus.
The thought of Silverward Crest lingered, a mansion on the hill with gates he could walk through but didn’t want.
Tonight, though, was for Olivia... and this ti he will keep up his guard.
He folded the empty parchnt around the last crumble, pinching it to his tongue, savoring the final sar of sugar.
The golden ribbon toyed around his fingers—tied, untied, tied again—before he let it go slack, tucking it back with the paper on the bench.
He brushed crumbs from his shirt, his trousers, quick slaps sending a sleeping pigeon into a flustered sprint.
The fiddle’s first notes drifted from a wine-house door, cracked just enough to promise laughter within.
Lor stood, crumbs scattering in tiny arcs from his lap.
He rolled his shoulders, his shirt settling right, his grin returning—the grin of a boy with plans and the nerve to turn them into stories.
The city’s evening pulse matched his own, steady and alive.
He walked toward Olivia’s house, the onset of night wrapping him like a cloak...
.
.
.
Lor’s stride carried a jaunty bounce, as if the city itself were laying out a red carpet for his plans.
The lingering sweetness of Nellie’s cookies still danced on his tongue, his stomach content, his mind alight with a buzzing anticipation.
Olivia.
Her offering.
The thought alone curled his grin wider, sharp and hungry.
Would it be like Nellie’s?
Thirty minutes of her body, surrendered to his whims, soft and pliant and searingly hot?
Gods, Nellie had been a revelation—sweet, shy, her freckled skin flushing under his touch.
But Olivia was a different beast.
Where Nellie hid her petite breasts behind nervous glances, Olivia wielded her body like a weapon, her posture daring n to stare.
And they did—her generous breasts, straining against her tops, had haunted Lor since the first lecture she’d sat in front of him, her tight pants hugging thighs he’d imagined wrapped around him more tis than he’d admit.
"Maybe I’ll make it that," he murmured, his boots clicking against the warm cobblestones as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in violet bruises.
"Half an hour of... what? Those tits, Olivia. I want them in my hands. A titjob? Yeah, that’s good, but I want more. Maybe she sits on my face, those thighs squeezing, and gives an oily titjob... sounds about right." His grin broke into a low, sharp laugh, drawing a sidelong glance from a passing rchant woman, her tongue clucking in disapproval.
Lor didn’t care.
His mind was already tracing the curves of an offering that would have Olivia moaning instead of tossing her usual barbed quips.
He tugged at his shirt collar, smoothing it with a flick, fighting the urge to quicken his pace.
Evening draped its shadow over the city, lanterns flickering to life in shopfronts, their soft glow mingling with the smoke curling from skewers and bakeries.
The chatter of the day softened into a hush, vendors calling last prices, laughter spilling from wine-houses.
Olivia’s house was close now—a few more turns, a few more streets, and he’d be at her door, ready to weave the Light’s guidance into sothing far more indulgent.
Darkness.
Hands slipped over his eyes from behind, warm palms pressing just firmly enough to blot out the world.
His body tensed, instincts screaming trap, every muscle coiling—until a voice poured over his shoulder, smooth and rich as spiced wine, laced with a teasing lilt.
"Guess who."
The confidence, the faint perfu of clove and honey—it wasn’t just familiar.
It was intimate, a scent that clung to mories of whispered secrets.
Lor’s lips quirked, a grin breaking through before his mind fully caught up.
"Kiara."
Kiara’s hands slid away from his eyes, and before Lor could turn, she was on him—her body pressing close, fingers tilting his chin with a boldness that stole his breath.
Her lips landed into his, swallowing the street’s fading hum in a kiss that was raw, ravenous, a feast for a lover starved. I
t wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was hunger, fierce and unapologetic, her tongue sliding against his, teeth grazing, her curves molding to his chest.
Her breasts pressed soft and heavy, her hips catching his in a way that sent heat racing through him.
Lor stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then surrendered to the fire.
She tasted like sumr wine—sharp, lush, edged with danger.
His hands found her waist without thought, fingers curling into her curves, pulling her tighter.
Kiara kissed like silk hiding a fla, her breath hot, her sighs vibrating in his throat, pouring desire straight into his veins.
Strands of her dark hair stuck to his cheek, her spice-sweet perfu wrapping him like a spell.
When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her pupils blown wide, dark pools glinting in the lantern light.
Lor’s breath ca ragged, the world tilting in that dizzying way only Kiara could trigger.
But beneath the heat, anger surged, sharp and cold, cutting through the haze.
He gripped her shoulders, holding her just far enough to see her face clearly.
"What the hell are you doing to ?" His voice cracked, harsher than he ant, suspicion darkening the lust. "What are these dreams? That woman—the pink one. She’s there every ti. What did you do? Who is she?"
Kiara blinked, her perfect features flickering with shock—real, unguarded shock.
The confident witch-blood heiress, always so sure, looked suddenly wounded.
"Dreams?" she echoed, her voice tight, stripped of its usual coy lilt. "Pink woman?"
"Don’t play dumb with ." Lor’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on her shoulders.
"She’s in my head or in my place, touching , draining . You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t question why my own girlfriend would plant that filth in my sleep?"
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, a hiss of breath escaping as she shook her head.
"I didn’t. Lor—I swear, I didn’t." She paused, looking away, her gaze darting as if sifting through mories.
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