Cassiopeia dropped like a stone—straight toward the floor.
Phei moved faster than humanly possible. One arm snapped out, catching her around the waist mid-fall, hauling her against his chest before she could hit the ground.
The wine sloshed in the glass she was still holding but didn't spill—her fingers had locked around the stem with the death-grip of a woman whose body had learned, in the span of one second, that dropping things Phei gave her was not an option.
He lowered her gently onto the bed—her body still quaking, breath coming in short, shattered gasps, her pussy still leaking his cum and her squirt onto the sheets in slow, pearly rivulets.
He leaned over her, voice low and steady.
"Don't be a hypocrite, Cassiopeia."
Her eyes—still glassy, still half-lost in the space between her old self and whatever she was becoming—snapped to his face.
