Alaric's eyes flicked to Orion as he worked. His hands didn't stop moving, gliding over Rosalind's body with the same practiced ease that one might trace the lines of a map.
The curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the soft, smooth surface of her thighs—his fingers traced each line, each dip, as though trying to commit every detail to memory.
Yet, despite the closeness, despite the undeniable pleasure, his gaze never strayed too far from the bubbling cauldron in front of them.
He wasn't a fool, after all. He might not know every ingredient that went into the Mystic Rejuvenation Elixir, but he knew enough to spot when something was off.
The warehouse smelled strongly of herbs, a cloying mix of earthiness and something sharper, like burnt sage.
The air itself felt thick with magic, pulsing around them. Tension hummed in the room, a silent undercurrent that kept everyone on edge.
