HIS POISONOUS POSSESSION
Dante hadn't just survived the surgery; he had sacrificed the last of his human warmth to become something I could no longer recognize.
We were back in the inner sanctum of the Spire, the floor littered with discarded bandages and cooling fluid. 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. It 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.
"Calibrate it, Ivy," he rasped, his voice a dry, jagged scrape.
Bab Populer