Alistair turned once more, and stepped back into her space. The air thickened. His presence alone could strip the room of warmth, the way frost steals breath from a windowpane.
His fingers rose—not gentle, not cruel, merely used to things he was about to do—and brushed the column of her throat.
He touched her as a scholar might trace the margin of an ancient text, studying the slight quiver beneath her skin.
There, beneath his thumb, her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. The sound of it echoed inside him, each beat a distant drum stirring the old hunger he despised yet depended on.
His fangs tingled, a subtle ache beneath the gumline, pressing downward as though they sought the world on their own.
Yet nothing else stirred.
No warmth.
No thrill.
No triumph.
Just the cold note of hunger, sharp and metallic, and the primal ache for release—never satisfaction.
