Even with her eyes shut, she could feel the heavy, physical weight of his stare dragging across her skin. It traced the sweat rolling down her neck, lingered heavily on the deep valley of her cleavage pushed up by the tight linen wraps, and dragged down to her bare stomach.
It was greedy. It was raw. It was the look of a starving, battle-drunk beast staring at a fresh, bleeding cut of meat.
Zephyra's lips twitched, fighting back a smirk.
Arrogant boy, she thought, a spark of genuine amusement cutting through her exhaustion. You just woke up from a three-day coma with a hole in your gut, and your first instinct is to come hunting? But if she was being entirely honest with herself, she liked it. She liked it a lot.
Decades of being treated like a terrifying, untouchable demigod got incredibly lonely. Having a young, brutally capable powerhouse look at her with such blatant, disrespectful hunger was a rare, intoxicating thrill.
