Page 169 of Marked By His Hunger
But I had always been that.
What the fuck was all this for if the one person who could change my fate refused to speak with me?
Curiosity and confusion fueled my rage until I felt near bursting.
The need to have her.
To possess.
To dominate.
To make her mine.
It filled me like floodwaters behind a cracking dam.
And when that dam shattered—the gods and the mighty All Father help whatever stood in my path.
Now she sat in front of me.
And it was all I could do to force myself to pay attention to her words.
She was stunning.
Not merely beautiful.
Not merely desirable.
She was constructed of temptation and defiance and softness and strength.
A complicated woman with intricacies of heart and mind as layered as the runes carved into my cursed flesh. Her body was ripe with hills and valleys, designed by the Norns themselves to unmake me.
And fuck yes—I wanted her.
Her scent alone unraveled me. Sweet and dark and laced with something delicious and metallic beneath—her Necromantic power.
Death clung to her like perfume.
Not decay. Not rot.
But the velvet hush of grave soil after rainfall.
Her words filled me with anger and rage—not directed at her, never at her—but at Professor Kenna.
The Witch had disclosed the conditions of my admissions contract. Had made it abundantly clear I was here to control my Bloodlust.
But she had not explained the history behind it.
Oh no.
The clever Witch had left that to me.
This was it.
The real test of the Fates.
Or the Norns, as my people called them.
Were they as wise as prophecy claimed?
