Nyxara Rising
She gave him illusions to wrap himself in, and he clung to them gratefully.
By the time they slipped into a private booth, his composure had worn thin, his control unraveling thread by thread.
“You’re tied to a group tracking anomalies,” Nyxara said, swirling a drink she had no intention of tasting. “People like me.”
He laughed, but the sound was brittle, desperate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She leaned in, letting him breathe her in, letting the ache she’d planted bloom into need. Her power pressed against him—heavy, inescapable, a velvet noose.