She looked at her boyfriend.
He was glaring. The particular, white-knuckled, jaw-clenched, vine-struggling rage of a man who was watching another man touch his woman and could not stop it. His eyes were locked on Viktor's hand — on the fingers sinking into the demon woman's tit, on the palm covering the nipple, on the particular, shameless, public display of ownership that was being performed in front of him.
"Stop," the demon woman said. Her voice was breathless. "He is seeing."
She tried to push Viktor's hand away. Her own hand — smaller, weaker, the demon-kin frame not matching the dense, supernatural strength in his arm — pressed against his wrist. The push accomplished nothing. His hand did not move.
Evriana grabbed her.
