Trenton Smith sat by the bed and slowly lit a cigarette.
The room was quiet, a familiar silence that had persisted for half a year now.
The air was filled with Norris' scent.
The warmth of her body temperature still lingered in his arms.
Her body fragrance had permeated his, soothing the beast that had been roaring in his chest for the past half year.
It was why this silence had become an enjoyable tranquility.
He might really be sick.
Enduring day and night, under the stress, he thought he was being calm, but he had already gone mad.
How else could he have slept with her so easily upon meeting her.
Not even feeling a hint of guilt.
If Liam Swallow knew what he had been up to recently, that mild-mannered man would probably shoot him in the head.
Trenton took a slow drag of his cigarette, and by the dim light, he looked at the ink-stained wound on his palm.
The black color that had seeped into the flesh was exceptionally ugly.
It was indisputable evidence of his madness.
