Cain could always feel her before he saw her, the electric hum of her presence prickling his skin like a thousand tiny needles of lust. She was there, slinking in the shadows, her glowing eyes—sharp as a blade, hungry as a predator—tracking his every move. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the musk of something far more primal. He couldn’t escape her. No matter how hard he tried to scrub the crimson stains from his hands, the blood clung to him like a lover unwilling to let go, smearing across the hard planes of his forearms, painting him in a grotesque masterpiece of sin.