'sweet lamb,' heat purled into cataclysmic menace. his breath brushed at her cheek. death hung in the threading of this breath, galaxies of brute elitism forming cruel ice sat their gaze upon her. he'd won her. as they were always in need to do. to collect. to enforce. to preen in their vainglorious blood-matted machinations of force. he supped on her fear, drawn into the shudder of her flesh and the subtle retreat as he guided her and her kin into his gangland. grinning sinister fool. and all she could was the disoriented figure of her sire, collapsing from defeat, from age, succumbing into something she could only guess to be heartbreak. 'to the lion goeth the reward.'
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ARMANCE