Marcel was supposed to be furious, seething with anger as he headed to that room, but he was thrilled instead - intrigued by her challenge. Having been raised from young by his psychopathic father Daniel, Marcel had been trained to revel in danger. While others were running for their lives, he was embracing the pain along with its darkness.
Like an addict, his hands itched, and he flexed them, releasing a deep breath that had nothing to do with anxiety but rather anticipation. So the moment he came into the room, the whole world could as well vanish because she was the only thing he could see. There she was in her fucking furious glory, holding a gun to his third in command. Mi amore, she was beautiful.
