style="padding: 2px; position: relative; left: 120px; top: 9px; width: 244px; height: 433px; z-index: 2; overflow: auto;">
500+
The pied brute stood before her cloaked with his shadows and with his darkness. The black orbs watched as she approached obedient of his silent commands that bid her forward, the black tendrils of those tenebrous entities reaching out from him, drawing her closer with that irresistible allure. As she stopped, the woman was close—and yet not too close. She was quick to learn from the lessons he gave. Those cruel lips twitched again, amusement flickering in those empty orbs. And then she spoke, claiming to her readiness, to her willingness. And she had indeed come willingly, easily. The brute was silent, those fathomless pools looking down upon her with cold calculation. This creature was ready to accept the Night into her heart, and he would allow her to spread those shadows of the night. Even when he would leave these lands, she would remain to allow his tenebrous soul to leak into the lands, seeping into the very earth itself until he had infected these lands—or perhaps he was the cure to the wretchedness that spread over these weakened lands like a virus.
And Sabeen Thames had moved only marginally toward him, but the dark tendrils that wrapped about her seemed to draw her dangerously near. The brute’s maw tilted slightly, nearly closing that distance as that cruel maw drew back in the beginnings of a snarl, those white teeth glinting in the half-light of the night. And there she stood before him, at his mercy, and still she came willingly. The Korean drank in her familiar scent, testing it for the proper signals and pheromones that he expected to be elicited—he was still simply that wolf, uninfected by the virus. And yet, whether or not such signals were imposed, the crow wolf would take it. He knew what he wanted from her. Like Cwmfen she would give it to him. But unlike Cwmfen, this female was not a carrier of that blood. Or was she? With proximity, he could smell the blood the pulsed beneath her skin, and there was a weak trace of something. “Are you willing to accept the burdens of my will?” the tenor sound continued, dripping with that dangerous intent. Her willingness was of no consequence; he simply presented to her that illusion of choice.
Then the large brute moved with that surprising fluidity, carried upon those merciless paws. He moved about her, his body never touching hers, and yet he pushed his maw through her fur, feeling her body along her shoulder and spine. He tested her touch, those jaws slightly parted as his teeth pressed against those freshly marked wounds, even feeling the fractured rib beneath. As the crow wolf circled about her, he paused at her rump, his nose brushing against that femininity with undisguised intent before he moved on, tracing her body once more. He would instill his seed within her shell—she was worth his time. Satisfied, Corvus paused at her shoulder, those cruel jaws brushing against her ear. “Are you willing to give your Self eternally to me?” That tenor voice almost growled, and yet, somehow that hollow inflexion never changed. But, as the religious did, she would belong ultimately to him. Once more, he presented to her that illusion of choice.