There is something to be said about doing things multiple times. Supposedly one will learn the best way to accomplish said action, or at the very least, what does not work. The tug, snap, pull that suddenly befalls the snake is reminiscent of the lightning girl. The very essence of it makes his mouth water and his gums ache in unfulfilled possession. Azariah had fought against him then hid from him. She had railed against the machinations of a hand called fate. Blackthorne wasn’t sure it was considered fate but he did understand that it was something stronger than just feeling. It was a great power at work; she had been filled with power yet had failed in the use of it. If she had succumbed to him, she could have been great.

Whoever this connection belonged to, it was no longer the lightning girl. Now it was someone different. This feeling was not full of sparks but full of strength. It was strong and tasted of iron, a cable that tethered them as he moved ever nearer the ditch that Renja had positioned herself in away from the others. Determined strides bring him closer and he can see the top of her head, the dark fur, the thick scruff, then the auburn patterns throughout her body. She is large, majestic looking.

Powerful. His jaw opens slightly, as if he is scenting the air, much like the snake everyone likens him too. Blackthorne inhales, eyes closing for a millisecond to savor her taste before he comes to stand at the lip of the ditch staring down at her with burning eyes.

”You smell like destruction,” he rumbles, his voice dark and velvety. Abruptly he lowers his head, intending to sniff the crown of her head, to touch her because she is his and by rights, he would taste the essence of her.