Once, he’d been composed. But composure had shattered, leaving behind only the barren, corrupted interior of his soul. For a time he’d played the part of Deceit, becoming Fear only once he’d gathered whatever victim into his grasp. Eternally, though, he was Lust. He withdrew a scalpel—just like the one he’d given to Halo—and he set it carefully against the deceased creature’s collarbone. Yet before an incision could be made someone approached, distracting him. He lifted the blade, turning to peer disdainfully at the stranger.
“A wolf,” he purred back, masking aggression beneath a sugar-coated exterior. Even so, the malicious look never left his eyes. “What does it look like?” This was one of her own—what would she think of this scene? The scalpel again met the corpse’s chest, slowly piercing through fur and skin, dragging down along the pale belly while leaving behind a lurid, weeping red mark. Almost like a zipper on cloth, he pulled the now separated sides away to reveal the crimson muscle below.