(--)
Her struggles had no godly might to them. There was pain, but it was dim and distant in the face of so much screaming want and base fury. Her body, small and feminine and all that had been lorded over him and denied him all his life, was there within his hands. Though she flailed and struggled, and there were more brief flashes of fiery pain, Guy rolled over her all the same. He was forced to relinquish his hold on her hair, though a few pale silver strands still clung between his fingers. Even as she spun and slashed and half his world went dark with blood from the slash above his eye, he was shoving her down again. He drew his freed hand back and threw a blow toward her face, an open-handed slap meant to knock her brains around. He put all the swing of his arm behind the slap, but his claws did not come into play. He wanted her face intact, and he always ran the risk of doing as she'd done to him in blood-blinding. He would have none of that -- she would see his vengeance in all its great glory.
Guy lifted his lower body from her and shoved with his other hand, claws scrabbling at her flesh until they sank a hold into her side. Digging into abdomen and surprisingly muscled flesh, he sought to finish her flipping and pin her on her back now -- he would look on her face, mud-streaked as it was. His voice was again half-shouting, though he'd lulled into a frightful repetition for a brief time: you're mine, I'll have you, you're mine. Perhaps it was the words that kept his teeth out of the fight until then -- without warning, he stopped speaking, if it could be called such, and sank his muzzle toward her shoulder, seeking to tear and slice rather than hold her flesh. The brown of the mud needed red to accentuate it, he thought, though he was unaware of the steady stream of blood from his own wounds, the most serious of which was his stabbed leg.
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