At the Silverwood manor, Deimon sat deep in his penthouse, emersing himself on his favorite cushion. The room was a tomb of velvet and shadow, the air thick with the sweet, heavy scent of cherry tobacco. A disco ball spun slowly in the corner, throwing tiny rays of golden and purple light across his bare, muscular chest. He looked like a king in a dark palace. He wore only silk shorts, the fabric barely clinging to his hips.In his left hand, he held a golden hookah pipe. He took a long, slow pull, the water bubbling softly. When he exhaled, thick, white cloud hid his face before swirling into the aromatic mist filling the room. A glass of dark wine sat on his right hand, catching the dim light. He sipped it, letting the alcohol burn a path down his throat, as he savoured it's flavors.Deimon stretched, his muscles rippling like a predator’s. His mind was a mess. The uprising within his clan, the new threats hiding in the dark, news about Anna. But tonight, he didn’
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