Ignatius Leclair carried Delphine into the car, his voice low as he ordered to head to the hotel. He lowered his gaze, quietly examining the woman drenched in the reek of alcohol, yet unusually quiet and obedient.
"Name," Ignatius said in a low, hushed voice, tinged with somberness.
The woman froze for a moment, struggling to maintain a thread of rationality, and weakly replied, "Time."
Ignatius's face instantly darkened, his long, sharp eyes narrowing into slits. He reached out and pinched her palm-sized face, letting out a cold laugh.
This woman, aside from her beauty, was utterly useless.
She could even lose herself in a role, unable to escape.
If this wretched thing didn't sober up, he'd damn well ruin her.
"Who am I?"
Who was he? Who was he? The man's face was familiar yet devoid of warmth. Chaotic fragments of information churned in her mind, with a voice relentlessly whispering: He is a demon, he is a demon.
