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She writhed as if to distance herself from the inevitable, but there was nowhere to go. No way to fight back anymore. Losa choked against the necklace of teeth he suddenly collared her with, swallowing thickly and flinching as the motion of her throat brought her thundering pulse closer to its doom. The sylph was shaking so hard from fear it was a wonder she didn’t fall apart. The vampire’s words, spoken in a lilting tone so dark and sensuous he might have been addressing a lover, burrowed into the girls veins like worms in a grave. She wanted to pull them out of her, one by one, and be clean of their stomach-churning slime. How was it that the mere sound of his voice affected her like a physical presence? Especially that one dreaded word, black with vile promise, heavier than a hammer as it struck her heart. Such finality. Such violence and hate.

His whispers continued to flood her as she shivered, smoke in her lungs, and the nightmare he painted within her appalled imagination was all the ballerina could see . . . skeins of crimson spilling from his muzzle as he shredded into her guts, the frigid glint of his reptilian irises gloating over her lifeless body . . . things that had haunted her unknown in the shadows but now loomed all too clear in her tear-blurred vision. I’m dead. I’m dead. The predator honestly saw her as worthless prey—something he could gorge himself upon without a shred of guilt. She’d been panting shallowly as he teased her nape with his fangs, but then her heart rate skyrocketed once more—slamming into overdrive when her nerves registered the firmness of his member stalking closer to its destination. Air knifed into her chest at the first point of contact, something hot and hard like slick stone pressing impatiently at the tender entrance of her gates. Losa cursed herself for the reflexive clench of her abdominal muscles . . . and the spill of moisture her flower so welcomingly offered.

“P-please,” the earth-born faerie murmured raggedly, voice trembling nearly as violently as her delicate frame. A torrent of frantic pleas and helpless begging fought for escape behind her satin maw. It wasn’t until the devil mentioned the cologne on her robes that something finally broke from her lips. “DON’T! Don’t you dare hurt him, you can’t, you can’t . . .” Enraged snarls stumbled back into petrified sobbing. Hurricane was a knight like no other. None could best him in a fight. But if this evil creature were to find him somehow, to corner him alone . . . Losa wasn’t sure who would emerge victorious. Because although she had no doubt the yellow-eyed gladiator could eviscerate any who stood in his way, she knew her tormentor would resort to devious, ruthless means to gain the advantage. Somehow he would win. And the threat of Hurricane’s safety—this wolf whom her mind struggled to hold onto but whom her heart could never let go—was enough for Losa to part her jaws an d obey. When the beast pulled her cranium upward, the points of his canines stabbing into her throat as he slammed himself inside her, the bird flexed her diaphragm and screamed

He plunged toward depths Losa had not known possible. Shock tightened her embrace around his relentlessly thrusting length, amplifying those maddening bursts of pleasure and pain into impossible strengths. Savage climaxes rolled in one after the other, encouraging her assault, speeding the titan’s rapacious siege. The sopping gulp of mire as it clung to her mussed espresso pelt was not half as repulsive as the harsh, repetitive percussion pounding wetly into the most sacred region of her temple. And above that, accompanying the manic beat of his own sick drum like a demon’s chant, the monster’s voracious groans reverberated directly through her ears. Impossible to block out. Not even her own desperate cries could smother her stark tortured awareness of what he did to her. And Losa could not more halt her body’s traitorous reactions that she could halt the punishing size of his girth impaling her.

He dominated her, devoured her, destroyed her. All she could think or smell or hear or feel was him—his soulless jade eyes and his dagger smile, his overpowering masculine lust-crazed musk, his weight bearing down upon her like a mountain, crushing her wounds and burying her alive. She was the carcass and he the vulture, ripping her apart piece by precious piece at his cruel leisure. And she could do nothing. Nothing. Nothing except scream through the tidal waves of agony and horrific stimulation masquerading as desire as they drowned her. Finally—an eternity later—the lecherous conqueror defeated her strength. Her vocal cords had long since torn themselves into nothing so that her shrieks tumbled out as little more than weak rasps. With a last shuddering whimper the heaven-eyed damsel blacked out, going utterly limp in the dragon’s grip.