The freezing realization of the wound on Luca's belly shattered the last remaining fragment of Malcolm's cognitive control. But his biology was no longer capable of processing high-level deductive logic. The black-market aphrodisiac his mother had slipped into his wine was mutating inside his bloodstream, unleashing a ferocious, suffocating wave of heat that obliterated his capacity to think, to reason, or to question.
With a ragged, animalistic snarl, Malcolm forcefully shoved Luca away from his lap. His trembling hands clutched at the edges of the platform bed as he practically rolled off the mattress, his heavy leather boots hitting the floor with a dull, uncoordinated thud. He couldn't stand straight. His spine was bent under the sheer weight of the chemical fire consuming his lower pelvis. Dragging his massive frame against the wall, his shoulder tearing a long scratch into the expensive wallpaper, Malcolm hauled himself toward the adjacent en-suite bathroom.
