The heavy oak door shut behind them with a finality that echoed through Dorian's chest. He'd carried slaves before to cells, to carriages, to their fates, but never like this.
Never with Willow's slight weight burning against his chest, her breath quick and warm against his throat, her fingers curled tentatively into the fabric of his clothes as though she didn't quite dare hold on but couldn't help herself.
Just a breeder, he reminded himself as his boots struck the stone floor with purposeful strides toward the massive four-poster bed that dominated his private chambers.
Just a vessel for the heir. Nothing more.
But his body sang a different truth. Every place where her soft curves pressed against the hard planes of his frame felt electrified, alive in a way he hadn't experienced in... gods, had he ever felt this?
This gnawing hunger that had started in the living room when he'd first tasted her mouth and had only grown more ravenous with every passing moment?
