Things had started escalating faster than most had anticipated the moment Phei stepped onto Hell's Paradise Island, and the universe—fickle, gleeful, and chronically under-occupied—had slammed the fast-forward button with the gleeful abandon like child who'd just discovered the remote could make the whole damn show go full-tilt filthy.
"Like moth drawn to the flames," Cassiopeia murmured into the porcelain rim of her coffee cup, the words curling on her tongue like smoke and immediately revealing themselves to be wrong in three distinct, deliciously humiliating directions at once.
She frowned at her own mouth, the tiny crease between her brows doing nothing to mask how her lips still felt plush and bee-stung from the memory of his.
That wasn't the right way to use it, was it.
Like moth to flame—she was reasonably sure that particular antique wasn't a description for things accelerating beyond prediction, which was the complaint she had been attempting to articulate.
