Foam bubbled from the corners of Eoan’s mouth, his eyes like a frightened animal’s; they were framed by white as they rolled to stare at me. His throat was distended from its invasion: it throbbed as Portia crept up onto his torso, his own body flat and prone on the beautiful floor. Rowan wasn’t wrong. There was a terrible intimacy to this, to Portia straddling him, her legs coming to cup his head, press him to her chest: she looked like a bride ready to slough her innocence. He gagged, spasming under Portia’s body.
