The sound of the bone snapping was louder than the camera shutters.
It was a wet, sickening pop that cut through the roar of the street like a gunshot. Lysander screamed—a high, keening wail that stripped away every ounce of his "Golden Boy" dignity.
He crumpled to the pavement, his knees hitting the concrete with a thud. Cyprian didn't let go. He stood over him, holding the twisted wrist at an unnatural angle, his face a mask of bored indifference.
"Let go!" Lysander shrieked, his other hand clawing uselessly at Cyprian’s pant leg. "You broke it! You broke my hand!"
"I adjusted your grip," Cyprian corrected calmly. He looked up at the wall of paparazzi, who had gone dead silent, their lenses zooming in on the violence.
Then, the flashbulbs exploded.
In my past life, I would have bee
