The afternoon sun bled into the warm hues of near evening, casting long shadows across the opulent chamber. The air, once thick with the scent of raw exertion and mingled sweat, had cooled slightly, leaving behind a stale, heavy reminder of the marathon debauchery.
Alaric stood near the large window, looking out over the sprawling Steele family estate. He was dressed now, immaculate in fine trousers and a silk shirt, his blonde hair perfectly styled, betraying none of the savage activity that had consumed him for nearly twenty-four hours.
Behind him, the room bore silent testament. Torn remnants of expensive clothing lay scattered like fallen leaves. Furniture was askew. Cushions bore damp patches.
And on the massive bed, nestled amongst the rumpled, stained sheets, lay the spoils of his relentless campaign.
Fiora. Lyra. Cassandra.
