Black Morass toward salvation

thantos watches isobel with sharp eyes, tracking her every movement as she slinks closer. she knows what she’s doing—knows how to draw a man in, how to make him want more than what she offers. and he does want more.

but he’s not stupid. he sees the way his sister sets the stage without ever lifting a finger. these two: they are women cut from the same cloth, weaving a trap? a test? a game? he doesn’t fucking care.

the woman—isobel—glides against him and brings heat to flare beneath his skin. his lips curl into a smirk and a sneer, teeth unveiled, eyes glinting with temptation.

you would take care of me? in what way? he seeks to ask. an amusing question and he takes it upon himself to brush closer to the woman, but it does not go farther than that. as much as it would please him—but his sister is here, eyes watchful.

he needs something—something to fill the hole in his chest. he has tried before, again and again, but nothing ever sticks. nothing ever lasts. isobel will be something to chase. something to sink his teeth into.

fade here?