The moon above bled red over the battlefield, its light casting a crimson haze across the shattered ruins of the enemy command post. Lucien stood atop a mound of twitching corpses, his obsidian blade dripping with hot blood that steamed in the cold night air. His chest heaved, muscles coated in grime and gore, but his crimson eyes glowed with a sharp, unrelenting hunger—not for death this time, but for *her*. Saphira.
The dragoness knelt before him, her tattered black dress clinging to her body like a second skin, torn and blood-streaked from the battle. Her silver hair was matted to her cheek, her golden eyes staring up at him with a wild conflict—fear, desire, submission warring within her. Her breath hitched, her body trembling as she spoke, her voice hoarse with awe and need. "You said you wouldn't lose control."
Lucien's lips curled into a predatory grin. "I am control."