A lone figure.
Am I seeing correctly?
I’m gaining on him quickly, riding at full speed, but he’s not making any effort to move.
The closer I get, the more details I can make out.
He’s big. Broad-shouldered and tall, he possesses the lean and muscular physique of a man who does hard and purposeful physical work on a regular basis.
A warrior or a hunter, perhaps.
He wears simple grey clothing. A tunic and trousers. Black leather boots. His face is hidden in shadow, covered by the hood of a long black cloak. A scarf conceals his lower face.
His hair emerges from one side. Long and braided, it’s almost as white as the snow itself.
A rare shade. A strange shade, considering that he is certainly not elderly. Who is this man? His clothing tells me he isn’t from the nobility. He doesn’t wear the insignia of any lord.
Is he a brigand, like the men from before?
But he carries no weapon.
He’s just standing there, still as a boulder, staring me down.
I catch a flash of something from beneath the shadow of his hood.
His eyes.
They glow red.
For a heartbeat, my entire body freezes.
Time slows.
A feeling of terrible un-reality ripples through me, coursing across my skin and down my spine.
As much as I want to, I can’t look away, even though an overwhelming feeling of danger permeates every fiber of my being.
There’s something unnatural about this man. He’s like a wraith; a specter, appearing out of nowhere, staring at me with those demonic eyes.
I urge my horse to run faster.
Faster. Don’t stop.
I’ll mow him down if I have to. There’s no way I’m stopping for this man—whatever he is.
For a moment, I think about galloping off into the woods, but the snow is thick on either side, and it would just slow us down. Besides, it would be so easy to get lost and disorientated in there, and I might not find my way back to safety before nightfall.
That would mean certain death, for both me and the boys.
I kick my horse’s sides, urging him to go faster, faster. Go! I won’t stop until we reach the safety of Tyron Castle’s stone walls.
But as he nears the strange man, my horse betrays me.
A great shudder courses through the creature. He lets out a whinny of pure panic and rears, throwing me off-balance.
I try to hold on, but the force and the shock is too great, and I’m thrown backwards out of the saddle.
I cry out in despair as I tumble, anticipating terrible pain as I hit the cold ground below.
But I never land.
Because he’s there, right beside me, catching me in powerful arms, and it happens so fast—he moves so unnaturally fast—that I can’t do a thing as he sets me on my feet and runs his trembling fingers across my cheek, inhaling deeply.
As if he’s savoring me.
And his eyes are crimson embers, contrasting with his pale cheekbones and brow, giving off a faint glow that’s definitely unnatural.
He’s a monster, just like the wolves that devoured my escort.
Even though I know it’s futile, I try to squirm; to wrench myself out of his grasp, but he’s demonically strong, and he pulls my arms behind my back, encircling both of my wrists with a single hand.
I kick his shins, but I only end up hurting my foot in the process. His body feels like it’s made of steel. I try and bring my knee up—to kick him where it hurts the most—but his other hand clamps across my thigh, and I’m perfectly powerless against his inhuman strength.
Paralyzed with fear, I stare up into his eyes.
His irises are pure red; the color of fresh blood. I wasn’t mistaken. They really do emit an unearthly kind of glow, as if his soul has been consumed by arcane magic.
His skin is smooth and perfect, like an alabaster statue. His brows are the same shade of white as his hair.
“Please,” I whisper, hoping that this creature possesses even a sliver of mercy. “Don’t.”
He lowers his face, pressing his lips against my neck. Through the soft material of his scarf, his lips are warm. He inhales deeply.
He’s trembling.
A low rumble emanates from deep inside his chest.
A growl.
Suddenly, the thin strip of cloth separating his lips from my bare skin is gone.
I feel them pressing against my neck, and I can’t move.
His lips!
I can’t do a thing.
I’m a rabbit, caught in a wolf’s thrall.
I am prey.
Something hard and sharp pierces my skin.
It takes a moment for the realization to sink in.
He’s biting me!
I feel the warm gush of my very own blood.
He’s drinking it.
His lips are a tender clamp, moving ever so slightly, sucking gently.
Why doesn’t it hurt? This savage, insistent pressure; this monstrous act… why does it somehow feel tender?
In fact, the feeling of his entirety; his large body engulfing mine, his immovable fingers around my wrists—bare skin against bare skin—his tongue and mouth caressing my neck…
All of this is…
It’s strangely pleasant.
No. I try to quash that traitorous thought.
He’s draining me. This monster is probably going to kill me.
Stop, is what I desperately want to say, but my lips won’t move.
My mind is frozen, caught in a viscous mixture of warmth and terror; of shock and blissful sensation.
Is this what death feels like?
He takes from me again and again. Time moves fast and slow.
It could have been an eternity.
It could have been the span of a single heartbeat.
I don’t know how long we’ve been like this, me held in thrall to this devastating creature. My resistance has melted. My thoughts are a panicked, heated mess.
I keep waiting…
For what?
Pain.
Death.
My end.
But it never comes.
And then, at long last, he stops.
My breath catches as he runs his tongue over the tiny punctures he’s made in my skin. All of a sudden, his mouth becomes shockingly gentle.
It doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t hurt at all.
He breaks away, and for a single inexplicable moment, I find myself lamenting the loss of his mouth’s warm caress.
Are you mad, Finley Solisar?
He lifts his head, and his lips are stained crimson with my blood.
For the very first time, I see his face.
Of course.
Does it even surprise me that he’s excruciatingly handsome?
His dark brows are drawn together, crimson eyes fixed upon me, his gaze so intense I feel like he can reach into my soul and take whatever he wants.
He has high cheekbones and a strong nose with a slight bend in the bridge—as if it’s been broken and set at some point in his unholy life. He has a chiseled jawline and a cleft chin. His cheeks are ever so slightly hollowed.
His lips are sensual softness; the only thing about him that’s remotely soft, even though they’re painted with my blood.
His tongue darts out and he licks his lips clean. I catch a glimpse of sharp fangs.
He is most definitely not human.
My heart remembers to beat again, hammering so hard and fast it’s almost painful.
The red glow in his eyes has faded. Now, they’re a deep, dark crimson—one could almost mistake them for reddish-brown. If not for the unnatural hue of his irises and the marble-like quality of his skin, I might almost think he looked human.