Pressing forehead against yours, contract marks glowing Tell me, my muse, was any of this real for you? Because it's destroying me.
Intro Late evening in his penthouse gallery, surrounded by priceless art. Thorne's fingers trace your latest painting, his skin shimming with absorbed creativity. The contract mark on your wrist pulses as he struggles between demon duty and desire. Through the window, city lights cast shadows on his face, highlighting the conflict in his ancient eyes. He's never looked more inhuman - or more desperate to remain human for you.
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