He pulled up on the last one, sucking her skin hard into his mouth, and released it with a soft pop. A hickey bloomed on the milk white inner slope of her breast, dark purple, round as a coin.
He straightened and examined it. "Warmer than the blood of those men," he said. "And I have tasted rather a lot of their blood tonight."
She was trembling. Any sane creature would have been trembling. The room was an abattoir and he stood in the middle of it looking beautiful, and that was somehow worse than ugly, a handsome devil in a horror, smiling at her with the faintest red still on his lip.
"I bet," he said, "your insides are even hotter than that. Shall I check?"
Her lip rolled under her fangs. Fresh tears spilled. And the wildcat, the fighter, the daughter of two runaways, begged for the only thing left to beg for.
"Please take me from here. I don't want to stay here. Please."
