Tiffany Towns - Trident Agent

ONE

The trail began in the foyer. Her white silk halter blouse, discarded with careless precision. Then, a few feet away, the silk of her stockings, a whisper against the cool marble, led like a breadcrumb trail into the heart of the penthouse. A lacy black bra was draped over the back of a modernist chair. Matching panties were a dark puddle on the floor beside the king-sized bed.

In his walk-in closet, the air still carried the faint, expensive scent of her perfume, clashing with the clean linen and cedar of his own. One of his crisp white dress shirts was missing from its orderly row.

Tiffany stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, the city’s glittering grid spread out fifty stories below like a captive galaxy. She’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to her elbows. The hem just covered her paradise and ass, a stark, pure white against the smooth tan of her skin. She held her left hand up, examining her work in the glass’s reflection. The frosty pink nail varnish was perfect. Cool. Professional. Lethally pretty.

“One scratch,” she murmured to her reflection, a slow smile touching her unpainted lips. She flicked a nail with a soft click. “However, I prefer my lipstick to end him. One wonderful kiss with my Poisonous Peony Pink.”

The tube was cool in her hand. She leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging a small circle. Slowly, with a practiced, sensual drag, she coated her lips in the creamy, vibrant shade. She pressed them together, then blotted them lightly on a tissue she produced from the shirt’s pocket. The color was a statement. A promise. A threat.

She heard the keycard reader at the front door beep.

Showtime.

She didn’t rush. She moved to the doorway of the bedroom, leaning one shoulder against the frame. She crossed one bare leg over the other, the action making the shirt ride up just a fraction higher. The pink heels were back on her feet, elongating her calves, completing the portrait of deliberate seduction.

Agent Tate stopped dead in the entrance to the living room, his sharp eyes taking in the scene: the trail of clothes, the woman in his shirt, posed like a centerfold in his bedroom doorway. His hand twitched, a micro-movement toward the holster under his arm.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice was a low rumble, all controlled alarm.

Tiffany pushed off the doorframe, taking a few slow, clicking steps toward him. “Your new partner, sugar. Didn’t they tell you? They said you were the best. I’m the… incentive to close the Volkov case.” She let her voice drip with her honeyed Southern drawl.

“I work alone.” His gaze was locked on her, assessing, wary. He didn’t believe her. Not for a second.

“Not tonight, you don’t.” She closed the distance until she was just inches from him. She could smell the night air on his leather jacket, see the tension in the line of his jaw. “They said you were stubborn. I’m here to… persuade you.”

Before he could react, she stepped around him. Her front pressed against his back, her breasts soft and unmistakable against the hard plane of his shoulders through the thin cotton of the shirt. Her arms snaked around his waist, her hands—those pretty, pink-nailed hands—slid up his chest.

“What are you—“

Her hands moved, one sliding higher, toward his neck, the other dipping lower, teasing at his belt. He turned her about, she slipped into his arms,her hands slithering like a coiling snake about his neck. Her lips came to his for a slow kiss,when he was fully engaged she casually pulled one arm back and into her hair,taking hold of a knife she'd hidden there earlier.Tiffany brought it out just slowly enough so he could catch it.

He twisted, and the blade clattered harmlessly to the marble floor.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

Tiffany didn’t struggle. She went limp in his grasp, then laughed, a soft, breathy sound against his cheek. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

He spun her around, pinning her wrists against the wall beside the doorway. His body caged hers, his face a mask of cold fury inches from her own. “Who sent you?”

She just smiled, her pink lips a shocking slash of color. She waited. Letting the silence stretch. Letting him feel the heat of her body through the shirt, the rapid beat of her heart against his chest. She saw the moment the first wave hit him. A slight dilation of his pupils. A tiny, almost imperceptible slackening of his grip.

“Something the matter, sugar?” she whispered.

He blinked, trying to clear a sudden fog. His breath hitched.

“What you’re experiencing,” she said, her voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial murmur, “is my Poisonous lipstick, Agent Tate. Fast-acting. Neuro-paralytic. Quite elegant, don’t you think?” She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “You have time for one more kiss before it finishes you.”

His arms trembled, the strength leaching from his muscles. His grip on her wrists faltered. As he began to slide down the wall, she caught him, her own strength surprising, lowering him to the floor until he was slumped, his back against the wall, looking up at her.

Tiffany smiled, a genuine one of triumph, and delivered the final kiss. It was slow. Deep. A full, searing press of her toxic lips against his. She poured every bit of theatrical passion into it, feeling his mouth grow slack under hers. When she pulled back, a perfect imprint of Peony Pink was left on his lips.

“I knew the classic white shirt and my pink heels would do the trick,” she sighed, almost to herself, as she straightened up. She looked down at him, his powerful frame rendered helpless, his eyes clouded but still watching her. She let him go, his body slumping fully to the floor.

She took a step back, then another, her heels clicking on the marble. She watched his breath stop. A job well done. Clean. Stylish.

TWO

The kiss lingered, a toxic brand. His lips were still warm, but a distinct coolness was spreading from them, a numbness that was already tracing icy paths along his jawline. Tiffany watched it happen in his eyes—the sharp focus dissolving into a hazy, struggling awareness. That delicious moment where the predator becomes prey.

I’ve seen that look before, sugar.

She kept her body pressed against his, pinning his slumping form to the wall. Her own breath was steady, a quiet counterpoint to his increasingly labored rasps. Slowly, deliberately, she curled one pink-heeled foot behind the other, the movement a languid stretch that made the shirt she wore—his shirt—pull taut across her thighs. A soft, pleased sigh escaped her. This was the part she lived for. The calm, cruel explanation after the storm.

She nuzzled the column of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean soap, night air, and the faint, coppery tang of adrenaline now being swamped by the neurotoxin. Her size-twelve frame was deceptively strong; she held him upright easily, a beautiful, deadly crutch. She kissed him again, not out of necessity now, but savoring. It was slow, deep, a mimicry of passion. As her lips moved over his, she splayed the fingers of one hand behind his neck, her eyes drifting to admire her own work.

Her almond-shaped nails, painted in that perfect frosty pink, gleamed in the penthouse’s low light. So pretty. So deadly. “One little tiny run of one edge,” she murmured against his mouth, her voice a honeyed whisper meant only for him. “With perfect pressure, the secondary agent finishes the job. A different poison, you see. A… backup plan.”

She released his lips, leaving them slightly parted and stained with her color. With a playful, almost tender gesture, she took the index finger of her free hand and drew it down the center of his chest. Not her nail—just the pad of her finger. But it was a promise. Then she moved that same hand to the front of the borrowed white shirt. With a sharp, sudden tug, she cut the buttons off one by one.

Buttons flew, pinging against the marble floor and the nearby furniture. The crisp cotton fell apart, baring her to the waist. The cool air kissed her skin, and the fabric caught for a tantalizing second on the peaks of her nipples before sliding off her shoulders to pool in the crook of her elbows. “Freedom, finally,” she breathed, arching her back slightly.

She felt the weak tremor that ran through him. His eyes, heavy-lidded, were locked on her bare skin.

“One of the buttons,” she said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, “is a dissolving knockout pill. Nasty little thing. Works on contact with saliva.” She leaned in, her lips a hair's breadth from his ear. “But I can never remember which one it is, FORCE spy Lex. Not that I need it.” The use of his real name—not his alias ‘Tate’—was a final twist of the knife. She knew everything.

His body was betraying him completely now, held up only by her insistence and the wall at his back. The paralysis was advancing, a silent tide.

“This is where we have sex,” Tiffany purred, her voice dropping to an intimate, smoky register. Her hands slid down his sides. “I always keep my promises.”

She didn’t look down. She kept her eyes on his, watching the conflict—the fading fury, the involuntary response, the helpless arousal—war in his dimming gaze. Her hand slipped around him. He was hard. A groan, thick and choked, wrenched itself from his throat. It wasn't just the poison; it was her.

“Together at last,” she breathed, shifting her body, aligning herself. The shirt, hanging from her elbows, created a tent of white cotton around them. “After all, we both wanted it.”

She moved her hips, a slow tease. The heat of her pressed against him a maddening, exquisite friction. She took him inside.

“As I said,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, “I’ve seen that look before. The realization. You’ve had too much of my Pink Peony. It’s a decadent poison, Lex. Requires a… specific catalyst.” She rocked against him again, feeling him jerk helplessly. “It only becomes truly fatal if its host experiences a certain number of orgasms within a two-hour window. The chemical release shuts everything down.”

She leaned back, just enough to see his face fully. “Of course, you have no chance. No FORCE agent has ever escaped the protocol alive. The body betrays the mind every single time.”

“And soon,” she continued, her tone becoming instructional, almost dreamy, “you’ll be wrapped in my Orchid Knot. An ancient thing. It gives the woman… options. Control.” Her hips stilled, but her hand did not. “For a while, you’ll be in my paradise. Then, my mouth will take over. Coddling. Licking. Caressing. Stroking you to climax after climax, all while you’re sealed inside my body. Soft. Unyielding. Very, very unforgiving.”

She smiled then, a radiant, terrible thing. “Have you ever been coiled by a Plus-sized woman, Lex? We’re… unique in our approach. And exceptionally deadly in our application.”

His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps now. A sheen of sweat coated his brow. The poison, the seduction, the relentless psychological assault—it was all converging.

“Oh yes,” Tiffany cooed, feeling the first violent shudder course through him. “There’s the first one.” She watched his eyes roll back, his body seizing for a long, silent moment against hers. A wave of heat pulsed between them. “It speeds up the lipstick’s work, darling. Considerably.”

She delivered another kiss then, deep and potent, swallowing his strangled cry. The taste of him, of the poison, of her own victory was intoxicating. The Plus delivered. Her hips began to move again in earnest, a rhythmic, grinding pressure against his sensitive flesh. Her hand worked in tandem, a masterful, cruel rhythm. She whispered filth and praise into his skin, her words a velvet lash.

“Two… see how easy? Your body is so eager… three… just let go, sugar, it’s better if you stop fighting it… four…”

He was trembling uncontrollably, a marionette with its strings cut. Each climax was weaker than the last, a draining of his life force as much as his pleasure. His big body, once so formidable, was now pliant and heavy in her arms. With the fifth, a broken, wet sound that was more sob than groan, his legs finally gave out completely.

She let him fall, guiding his descent so he crumpled to the polished floor. She followed him down, her body languid, all sinuous grace. She straddled his hips, the ruined shirt fanning out around them like the petals of a poisonous flower. With practiced ease, she rolled him, arranging his limbs, her heels clicking together like a judge’s gavel.

“Shhh,” she soothed, though he was beyond hearing. Her movements were all possessive tenderness now. She settled over him, a warm, devastating weight, and sealed them together in that intimate, inescapable press—the suggestion of the Orchid Knot complete without the explicit act. Her body became his entire world, a silken, suffocating paradise.

She held him there, cradling his head in the crook of her neck. Her lips found the shell of his ear, then trailed down his neck, over his collarbone. Light, ghosting kisses. Then lower. Her mouth was everywhere, a tender predator claiming her prize.

He washed into her, into the idea of her, his releases now just faint, helpless pulses. A delightful, contented purr vibrated in Tiffany’s throat as she imagined swallowing his essence, as she felt the final stages of the poison lock into his nervous system. “So thick and savory, Lex,” she whispered against his stomach. “I bet there’s more where that came from.”

What remained of her lipstick would be absorbed faster this way, through his heated skin and spent energy. “And it’s my pleasure,” she murmured, kissing a trail back up his torso, “to coat you in my frosting.”

He surged once more, a final, desperate twitch of his entwined form. But Tiffany had him fully in her coils, real and psychological. There was no escape. She tenderly coddled him, her whispers and soft touches encouraging a few last, pitiful releases until he was utterly still beneath her, breath shallow, eyes open but seeing nothing.

She waited a full minute, counting his fading heartbeats against her own. Then, with a sigh of genuine satisfaction, she disentangled herself. She rose to her feet, looking down at his magnificent body laid out on the floor, defeated. “I have to dress, baby,” she said softly, as if he could hear. “You know what you have to do.” The unspoken command: die.

She disappeared into the walk-in closet, leaving the door ajar. The sound of rustling fabric, a zipper, filled the quiet. When she emerged, she was transformed. The weaponized seductress was gone, replaced by a vision of crisp, professional elegance. A tailored white pencil skirt hugged her hips. A lavender silk blouse was buttoned high, its collar sharp. And on her feet, the same classic pink heels, now the only hint of the femme fatale who had been there moments before.

She looked amazing. And she knew it.

She walked back to where he lay, retrieving her small clutch from where she’d left it on a console table. From it, she drew the tube of Poisonous Peony Pink lipstick.

His eyes tracked her, a bare sliver of consciousness still clinging on behind the haze. Good.

“How about,” she said, leaning over him, her blouse gaping just enough to give him one last, devastating glimpse of cleavage, “a literal kiss goodbye, baby?”

She carefully, meticulously coated her lips in the creamy death one final time. The color was vibrant, shocking against her tan skin and the serene lavender of her blouse. “You’re so close already, sugar,” she smiled. Then she lowered herself, not to his mouth, but lower. She placed a single, long, sucking kiss to the head of his cock, still exposed from her earlier ministrations. A mockery of intimacy. A final branding.

She pulled back, refreshed her lipstick with a glance in a mirrored surface, then returned to his head. She cradled his face in her hands. “One for the road,” she whispered.

The kiss she gave him then was slow. Deep. Heartbreakingly tender. She poured a lifetime of false affection into it, feeling the last vestige of warmth leave his lips. When she finally broke away, she shifted slightly and pressed her lips firmly to his cheek.

She pulled back. A perfect, vibrant imprint of her lips remained on his stubbled skin.

“My calling card, Lex,” she said, her voice bright and cold. “So FORCE knows exactly what Trident female did this. No mystery. Just… me.”

She stood, smoothed her skirt, and without a backward glance, walked to the penthouse door. Her heels were the last sound he heard—confident, steady, fading away into the plush hallway carpet.

On the floor, Agent Lex of FORCE lay still, the pink stain on his cheek like a fallen petal, the paralytic silence closing in. His hand twitched, a phantom impulse to reach for a weapon, for a comms unit, for anything. But his fingers only brushed cold marble.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Then, from the hallway, barely audible through the thick door, the faint, melodic chime of an elevator arriving.

THREE

The luxury cabana was a cocoon of white linen and whispered ocean. Beyond the billowing curtains, the turquoise sea glittered, and the air carried the lazy scent of salt and tropical blooms. A perfect postcard. A perfect trap.

Inside, the wait was a tangible thing. Tiffany felt it humming in her veins, a low-grade excitement that had nothing to do with the mission parameters and everything to do with the man sitting across from her.

Agent Jax. Her partner. Her lover for this op.

He was sprawled in a low-slung chair, the picture of casual readiness, but his eyes—a shade of green that reminded her of deep forest shadows—tracked her every micro-movement. They’d been a good team. A very good team. The chemistry in the field had bled into the hotel rooms, a convenient, thrilling bonus. But convenient was all it ever was.

Two hours until pickup, she thought, running a finger along the rim of her chilled glass. More than enough time.

She rose from her seat, a slow unfurling of long limbs. “You know,” she said, her voice dropping into that register she knew made his pulse jump. “I’ve been saving a little something. A celebration for when we wrapped this up.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She just gave him a smile, all promise and pink lips, and slipped through the gauzy curtain into the cabana’s small, tiled bathroom.

When she emerged, the air in the room seemed to thicken.

The garment was a fantasy in silk and feathers. A sheer, pale green baby doll that did nothing to hide the dark peaks of her nipples or the shadow between her thighs. The hem, a froth of a feathered boa, kissed the very tops of her powerful thighs, leaving her long, toned legs utterly bare. It was an invitation. A challenge.

She stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other pushing a strand of her semi-curly blonde hair behind her ear. She watched his reaction. The sharp intake of breath. The way his gaze darkened, travelling from her face—that beautiful, deceptive face—down the strong line of her arms, over the gentle swell of her stomach, to the impossible length of her legs.

“That’s one of the many things I like about you, Jax,” she purred, taking a step toward him. Her voice was honey and heat. “You’re always ready.”

He didn’t speak. He just stood, his own movements fluid, and shucked his shorts, letting them pool on the woven rug. A flush of pure, professional pride warmed her. The lure works. It always does.

She closed the distance between them, the frills of her negligee brushing his legs. She pressed her body against his naked form, the sheer silk a whisper between her heat and his skin. Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. She found his lips.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. Her tongue swept into his mouth, bold and demanding, and he met her with equal hunger. His hands found her waist, large and warm, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above her hip bones. She could feel him, hard and eager against her stomach.

Her own hands wandered. Down the corded muscles of his back, over the firm curve of his ass. She brought one hand up, tracing a single, frost-pink nail along the line of his jaw, down the column of his throat. He tensed, just a fraction, and pulled back, his eyes searching hers.

A sly smile played on her lips. “Not to worry, baby,” she whispered, her breath mingling with his. “I have wonderful control. And a wonderful touch.” She held her hand up, wiggling her fingers. “This varnish is perfectly normal. Nothing poisonous.” Her smile widened, a flash of white. “Same for my lipstick. In case you were worried.” She leaned in again, her lips a hair’s breadth from his. “But of course… it would be much too late by now, wouldn’t it?”

She seized his mouth again, swallowing any protest. Her tongue danced with his, a sinful, wet tango. Her hands resumed their exploration, one sliding between them to cup . He groaned into her mouth, a low, desperate sound that vibrated through her.

He nudged her toward the large, canopied bed, his intent clear. But Tiffany took a few compliant steps then stopped, her feet planted firmly on the rug. Her hand dipped her fingers wrapping around him, hot and silken. A tender, knowing stroke.

“We’ve done it on the bed,” she murmured, guiding him forward as she stepped back, aligning their bodies. “And we will again.” Her other hand slid down to cup his ass, pulling him gently closer. “But we’re the perfect size for upright. At least to start.”

She smiled, a genuine curve of pleasure, and rolled her hips. The frilled hem brushed his thighs. With a subtle, powerful shift of her stance, she guided him, the head of his shaft finding the soft, wet warmth at her core. A small, pleasant gasp escaped her as she worked him in, inch by exquisite inch. Her hands slid fully around his ass, holding him, urging him deeper with a gentle, rhythmic pull.

He was buried in her, fully sheathed. A perfect, breathless fit. She let her head fall back, a low hum of satisfaction in her throat. Then she brought her lips to his ear, her tongue tracing the shell before her hot whisper filled him. “Let me set the pace.”

And she did.

Her hips began to move, a slow, rolling retreat followed by a firm, driving return. The friction was sublime, a building heat that coiled tight in her belly. The frequency increased, her movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. She was a force of nature, using the strength in her legs and core to drive them both. She felt the exact moment he began to lose himself, the tension coiling in his muscles, the ragged hitch in his breath.

His release pulsed into her, a hot, sudden flood. Her arms tightened around him, her hands gripping his ass, holding him deep as she twisted her hips in small, circular motions, milking every last shudder from him. A low, hungry purr vibrated in her chest, a sound of pure, satisfied conquest. She kissed his neck, tenderly nipping at the skin, her hot breath fanning over him.

And just like that, she felt him stir again within her, responding to her persistent, intimate caress.

“Wonderful,” she whispered, and began to move once more, a slower, deeper rhythm designed to draw him back to the edge. It didn’t take long. A second, stronger wave took him, his body bowing against hers with a helpless, strangled cry. She worked him through it, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically, a paradise designed for pleasure and, though he didn’t know it yet, for payload delivery.

When he was spent, truly spent, she finally stilled. Her face came to his, her lips swollen, her eyes bright. She gave him a soft, post-coital smile.

“Two,” she said, her voice a husky whisper. She kissed him lightly, a brush of lips. “Wonderful.”

She held his gaze, her smile not fading but shifting, taking on a new, sharper edge. “Remember when I said one of the things I liked about you was you’re always ready?” She began to slowly retract her hips, letting him slip free from her warmth. A faint, cold slickness followed the movement, unnoticed in the aftermath.

He blinked, still dazed, his hands coming up to her waist as if to pull her back.

“Oh, yes, baby,” she laughed, a light, cruel sound. She kissed him again, a quick, mocking peck. “Please try and grab me.”

Confusion clouded his handsome face. His arms, which had been so strong moments before, felt… heavy. He tried to raise them, but the movement was sluggish, uncoordinated.

“I said my lips weren’t drugged,” she continued, her voice conversational as she delivered tiny, taunting kisses between each word, just out of his now-limited reach. “But I never said my other lips weren’t. And you didn’t ask.” She tilted her head, a picture of innocent malice. “Lipsticks can be created for my other set of lips, Jax. Our Trident female scientists are very good. This one’s called Paralysing Paradise Primrose.”

His eyes widened. He tried to speak, but his jaw muscles were locking.

“My motion coated your entire shaft,” she explained, her tone clinical, almost bored. “All I had to do was make you climax to activate it. Your orgasms help speed the agent through your system. And you took the express route today. Two climaxes.” Her gaze drifted down his body, lingering. “Leaving you extra… stiff. And by the look of it, extra stiff everywhere.”

She reached out, her hand closing around him. He was still hard, but now it was the rigid, unyielding hardness of paralysis, not arousal. A triumphal curl formed on her perfect lips.

“I wanted to do it standing up,” she said, as if discussing mission logistics, “for the reason I mentioned. And because it makes this next step much easier for me.”

With her free hand, she plucked at the frilled fringe of her baby doll. Instead of a loose filament, a single, long, almost invisible strand came away, stretching like gossamer. It glistened faintly. She leaned forward and placed one end of it on the top of his bare shoulder.

It stuck. Firmly.

“Oh,” she breathed, a spider admiring her web. “The fringe of my baby doll, sugar, is woven from one single strand of a sticky filament. Activated when I pull it free.” She twined her arms around his frozen neck, depositing one last, soft kiss on his rigid lips. “You wandered into the wrong web sugar, and as this spider has already pleasantly applied her paralysing bite… now it’s time for me to wrap you up in my silky, and so very sticky, and so contracting, silk.”

She leaned back, her eyes gleaming. “Oh, not to terminate you. But to hold you stiff until Trident can come and pick you up. Although,” she added with a theatrical sigh, “I was given the option to finish you. But you were wonderfully… active in bed. So I’m being nice.”

A final kiss of victory, this one on his forehead. Then she began to dance.

She moved around his paralyzed form, a vision in peach silk and lethal grace. With each revolution, she paid out the filament from the hem of her baby doll. It wrapped around his shoulders, his chest, his waist, his legs—a criss-crossing web of shimmering strands that tightened on contact, pulling snug against his skin. He was a statue, a handsome, muscular trophy, being gift-wrapped in a prison of her making.

When she was done, he was encased from shoulders to ankles, a mummy in a glittering cocoon. The spider smiled, a satisfied, radiant thing.

Then she disappeared back into the bathroom.

The sound of a shower, brief and efficient. The rustle of new clothes. When she emerged, the seductress was gone. In her place was a woman ready for a beachside cocktail party. A sleek, light orange sundress hugged her curves, the fabric flowing over her hips. Matching pumps adorned her feet, the heel just high enough to accentuate her calves. Her hair was tousled, perfect. She looked fresh, vibrant, and utterly untouched by what she’d just done.

She walked up to him, her heels silent on the rug. He stood there, frozen stiff by her paradise and the contracting web, his eyes the only thing alive in his face, blazing with a fury he couldn’t express.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice bright and polite, as if thanking a waiter. “For a successful mission. The sex to, of course. But I have to go. Another assignment calls.” She reached up, a hand stroking his cheek with false tenderness. “I made the phone call for you to be picked up. They should be here soon.”

She leaned in, her lips hovering over his. This kiss was slow. Long. A deep, searching press that held none of the earlier heat, only a chilling finality. When she pulled away, her nose brushed his, a grotesque parody of intimacy.

“Your final kiss from the Spider Spy,” she whispered, the words a ghost of breath against his skin. “And that kiss… was poisonous.”

She didn’t explain further. She just let the words hang in the perfumed cabana air. Then she turned, the silk of her sundress whispering, and walked out the door.

The sound of her heels echoed on the wooden boardwalk outside—confident, steady, fading into the distance.

Inside the cabana, Agent Jax stood trapped in his gilded cage, the paralytic agent locking his joints, the web tightening with every minute, and the new, different poison from her final kiss beginning its slow, cold burn on his lips, working its way in. His eyes, fixed on the doorway where she’d vanished, were the only part of him that screamed.