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Sekhmet's hands moved with deliberate slowness, as if time itself bent to his will. He traced the line of her shoulder, where a thin smear of dried blood —not hers— still clung to her skin like dark paint. His thumb pressed against it, smearing the crimson across her collarbone, painting her in the evidence of the night.
"Stay still," he murmured, and his voice was low, almost reverent.
Lily obeyed his command. Her breath came shallow, her chest rising and falling beneath the ruined fabric of her dress. The heat of his touch burned through the layers still covering her, and she watched his eyes track every movement of his own fingers.
He brought his hand to his mouth and licked the blood from his thumb. His gaze never left hers.
"You taste like the hunt," he said. "Like victory."
She felt her pulse quicken, felt the warmth pooling low in her belly. "And what else do I taste like?"
