Page 63 of Hunted

Over a human. Over a bounty hunter who smells wrong.

I lean back in my office chair and stare at the skyline through the glass wall.

What in Netheris is happening to me?

I tap into Malachi’s mind, aiming for casual intrusion. He is with her in the lower levels, as instructed, reviewing surveillance feeds.

His thoughts are disciplined. Structured. Entirely professional.

I skim them anyway because apparently I am no longer in control of my baser impulses.

Has he touched her again?

No.

He would not dare after this morning. My blood running through his veins would have healed his wrist within the hour, but the memory will last longer.

Five minutes later, I tap in again.

Any progress?

Nothing yet, my lord.

I sever the connection and rise, pacing the length of the office.

Perhaps the solution is simplicity itself. Take the little bounty hunter to bed and purge this madness from my system.

Sink my cock into her dripping cunt and my fangs into her beautiful throat. Sate myself on her screams until she learns the costs of her defiance.

The thought is raw, visceral and immediate, driving my body to aching response.

Just as swiftly, I crush it with a sneer.

I will not soil myself with the wrong-smelling little fox, no matter how effectively she provokes me.

Lyra is the one I should be imagining beneath me.

Lyra is the one whose throat I should taste with intention. Whose body should offer penance for six years of abstinence and ball-crushing blue balls.

When I find her.

Not if.

I close my eyes and allow the fantasy to unfurl. Controlled. Deliberate. Possessive.

She will stand before me in this room, defiance stripped away and replaced with understanding. I will take my time with her, make her feel the weight of every year she stole from me, bite every inch of her body and save her throat until last.

Break her slowly until pride dissolves into submission.

And when she was adequately pliant, I would mark her properly this time, claim her, teeth sinking deep while my hand disciplines her resistance, forcing her to her knees until she understands what it means to belong.

To be a fated chosen of a Five Blood vampire.

My cock swells to stone, pressing against my fly as the image sharpens. Dark hair against black marble. My hand at her nape. Her thighs spread, arms pinned, the mark burning between us as I drive into her and shatter Morrighan’s curse with blood, seed and inevitability.

My hand closes over my aching shaft, thoughts of impaling her… of breeding her, dragging a muted groan from my throat before I can stop it.

She would be a woman by now, not a trembling girl. Dark rose cunt to go with plump rose lips.