Deaths Possession
Black tactical gear clings to him as a second skin, plates of matte armor laced with runes pulsing dull red.
His horns curl back from his temples in jagged arcs, more bone than elegance, and his wings, ink-dark, torn at the edges, flare slightly as he crosses the threshold uninvited.
I don’t move from my position, he’s not getting near her.
“Shut the fuck up and speak,” I say, already regretting opening the door.
But his eyes, obsidian with twin flickers of ember, have found her, still passed out in the nest I made.
Bab Populer