Off. Wrong. Marcus was still and silent – he was never so aloof with her. Not since they had been frequenting the same bed, certainly, and very rarely even before that. He always had something witty to say, something rolling off the tongue just so to make her laugh or roll her eyes. He was reliably foppish, her Marcus.
And the heat kept building. By the time he pushed her back against her mirrored vanity, the air was shimmering around them. Elia could feel the scorch of it against her skin, threatening to blister the pristine flesh – only the wash of shadow-magic kept it from happening. "Hey," she objected, her own eyes darkening a little, narrowing. "Never let it be said that I didn't like playing rough with you, love, but try not to break things. I'm very partial to this mirror..."
Wrong, wrong, wrong. He tasted all wrong, like ashes and acid on the back of her tongue, thick and vile. Her mind reached for Issac's, the connection between them pulsing. Something's wrong, I need the Ringmaster. Get him – now. Where their bodies touched, Elia's lingerie began to smolder; her skin reddened, only to heal and redden again. The hand around her neck was burning, like a hot vice wrapped around her throat. Her fingers came up to try and pry that hand away, the tips and palms burnt for her efforts.
And the shadow that she could sense around him, the presence in the darkness. Something in Elia hissed and tensed, her own magic rising to meet the threat even as they grappled over whether or not she needed to breathe.