Victor was sitting on the sofa in the main room, his head resting against the backrest and his eyes half-closed.
He had planned to rest before the mission.
That was all.
To sit, close his eyes for a few minutes, and perhaps pretend that reports, palaces, fugitives, sealed werewolves, cursed rings, and dangerously alluring women living around him didn't exist.
Naturally, the plan failed.
Carmilla was on his right, pressed close against his body, one hand resting on his chest and her lips latched onto his neck. Scarlet was on his left, lying almost on top of him, her fingers clutching his open shirt as she drank from a bite just below his collarbone. Both were far too quiet to seem innocent, and Victor knew full well it wasn't just hunger.
His blood was the problem.
Or the excuse.
Perhaps both.
