Chapter 41: Men think with only one head
I’m dead. I did everything to satisfy this woman. If all of that isn’t enough to calm and dominate her, I don’t know who in this world would be capable of it.
We’re sprawled on the bed. Thankfully, the bed didn’t break, and I don’t have to worry about possible repairs later, though I’m not sure if anyone else heard our high-impact activity.
I caress Moriah’s hair beside me, she’s snoozing so peacefully it actually scares me. What’s the probability of the same thing happening again? If I sneak out, will she come after me armed? But today, it’s not like she needs to...
I look at the moth-woman’s foolish little face beside me. It’s cute. I want to poke her while she sleeps, her head resting in such deep serenity that it makes me doubt if that psycho killer and the person lying next to me are the same person.
Better not misunderstand, she’s evil. Who the hell drugs someone else for sex out of nowhere? Not to mention the possible horrible experiments she must have committed with little rats or inside that mansion before we met... I prefer not to even imagine.
...but, at the same time, there’s something mesmerizing about seeing someone like her so vulnerable. The contrast is absurd. During the day, she hides in a dark laboratory and rips the livers out of horrendous monsters, while now, lying beside me, she just seems like... any other woman. With moth wings, yes, but still a woman. A very beautiful one, in fact.
I let out a low sigh, slowly adjusting myself so as not to wake her. My body is still exhausted, bruised in some spots, and the elixir she prepared worked so well I almost felt like a demigod, until the side effect made me lose motor coordination for twenty minutes.
I’m grateful that only happened after the sex.
Still, the thought keeps echoing in the back of my mind: Moriah is deadly. Unfortunately, I don’t have a better comparison than "poison", but they say even the worst snake venom can turn into an antidote. May this be true.
My fingers slowly slide over one of her wings resting on the covers. The texture is soft like warm silk and strangely firm. If I’m not careful, one flap could rip my head off.
"You’re not going to fly on top of me now, are you?", I murmur, more to myself than to her.
Nothing. She just rolls onto her side, mumbling a moth-like hum.