Wide eyes. Parted lips. Flushed cheeks. Pale skin. She looked like a porcelain doll: big blue eyes, chocolate hair and creamy white skin; breakable beautiful, something that he wasnât meant to touch with his scarred, brutal hands. His fingers found her wrist; her heartbeat was fluttering like a birds. Sheâd tried to fight, tried to be brave, tried to hurt him, maybe even kill him. Had she truly hoped she could succeed?
Hope; it made people foolish, made them believe in something beyond reality. Heâd got out of the habit of hoping a long time ago. He knew what he was capable of. She had hoped she could kill him. He knew he could kill her, no doubt about it.
His hand traced the soft skin of her throat, then his fingers wrapped around it. Her pupils dilated but he put no pressure into his touch. Her pulse hammered against his rough palm. He was a hunter, and she the pray. The end was inevitable. Heâd come to claim his prize. Thatâs why Falcone had given her to him.
Growl liked things that hurt. He liked hurting in return. Maybe even loved it; if he were capable of that kind of emotion. He leaned down until his nose was inches from the skin below her ear and breathed in. She smelled flowery with a hint of sweat. Fear. He imagined he could smell that too. He couldnât resist and he didnât have to, not anymore, not ever again with her. His. She was his.
He lowered his lips to her hot skin. Her pulse hummed under his mouth where he kissed her throat. Panic and terror beat a frantic rhythm under her skin. And it made him fucking hard.
Her eyes sought out his, hoping â still hoping, the foolish woman â and pleading him for mercy. She didnât know him, didnât know that the part of him that hadnât been born a monster had died a long time ago. Mercy was the furthest thing from his mind as his eyes claimed her body.