Tony Clark stood over the bed, his dark eyes narrowed in a cold, calculating gaze as he watched Elsa.
The absolute authority of the Heavenly Imperial Soul Subduing Art had completely re-engineered the neural and spiritual pathways of her loyalty, turning a lethal, venomous enemy into an entirely pliable, devout instrument of his will.
Yet, Tony did not allow the intoxicating rush of total dominance to cloud his strategic faculties; his pool of Fate Points had been critically depleted to a mere two hundred and forty, and he needed an immediate, high-value return on his massive thirteen-hundred-point investment.
"Get up, Elsa, and sit properly," Tony commanded, his voice dropping into a low, detached baritone that carried the absolute, unyielding weight of their new spiritual contract.
