Clay's fingernails sharpened—long, black, and curved at the tips—as rage surged in him like acid. They weren't just fingernails anymore. They were claws—deadly ones—and in that moment, he considered ending Lady Vivian right there. She stood in his doorway with her long, fur-lined coat sweeping the floor behind her, completely unaware of just how close she had come to being torn to ribbons.
But he didn't move. Not yet.
"Oh! Are you talking about the monster?" she asked, her tone much lower than before, pretending as though her voice carried comfort rather than calculated disregard. She stepped inside with deliberate poise, closing the distance between them. Her eyes were locked on him, lips curled in a cold, knowing smile as she walked in, slow and confident. Then she sat down on his bed, crossed her legs, and tilted her head—like she owned it. Like she owned him.
