HIS POISONOUS POSSESSION
His right arm, the one that had held me with a desperate, shaking warmth on the mountain, was gone—replaced by a predatory limb of dark obsidian and silver-tech that looked like it had been forged in the heart of a dying star.
Dante sat upright on the edge of the obsidian table, his chest heaving, his sweat-slicked skin pale against the matte black of his new right arm. The limb was a masterpiece of Sovereign engineering—a network of silver "veins" that pulsed with a lethal, indigo light, ending in fingers that looked more like talons than bone. He looked like a god of the ruins, beautiful and terrifyingly hollow.
"Calibrate it, Ivy," he rasped, his voice a dry, jagged scrape.
Sikat na Kabanata