Against the cloth, against the binding, the stiff, prominent, aching peaks pressed outward. The fear had engorged them — the blood rushing to the tissue, the adrenaline triggering the involuntary response, the dark, pinkish areolas visible through the thin fabric.
Viktor noticed.
His eyes dropped.
From her face to her chest. The strip of cloth — the ridiculous, inadequate, purely decorative wrapping that the Catorian family's captain wore as a bra — was straining. The massive, heavy, bull-kin tits behind it were heaving with each terrified breath, and the nipples — stiff, engorged, prominent — were pushing against the fabric with the particular, urgent insistence of flesh responding to a stimulus it could not control.
He looked closer.
