The only physical difference between them was the colour of their eyes; Stefan's cornflower-blue, Niklas's watered gold, unnervingly blank. A seamless flow of notes, turning endlessly around itself like a Bach fugue. She went to the door, paused to look at the curved bulk of his back, the wisps of white hair straggling over the crumpled collar. Then he turned away and went in search of Karl with the taste of her lingering deliciously in his mouth.
Her tiredness had the charm of a sleepy kitten, and her red hair was aglow in the flat grey daylight. And he bit into Kristian's neck and began to draw the sluggish fluid out of his veins. She felt his hands tightening on her back; his tension transmitted itself to her body, electrifying. Everything about him depressed me, his arrogance, his presumption, his brutality.
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