Mira looked at her.
The naked woman — the walking catastrophe, the goddess of war, the mother who had given birth minutes before destroying an army — looked at the kneeling demoness. At the ash-grey hair. At the crimson eyes. At the barely-contained body. At the smirk.
She tilted her head. Her green eyes — still burning, still luminous — traveled down Nora's body. The strips of fabric. The heavy breasts. The flat stomach. The strip between her thighs.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Are you good at getting fucked?"
"HEHH?"
Nora's crimson eyes went wide. The composure — the heavenly demon composure, the three-thousand-year-old composure, the 'I-am-above-everything' composure — shattered. Her mouth opened. Her jaw dropped. The blush — the same pink blush that had appeared when Viktor had made her lick his cock — returned. Fiercely. Across her cheekbones, her ears, her neck, the upper swell of her barely-contained breasts.
"WHAT—?!" she sputtered. "I — what — how is that — WHY would you—"
