Page 173 of Marked By His Hunger
And my hunger surged to immeasurable heights.
When I bit her neck—not piercing.
Not yet—I tasted her pulse against my teeth.
It nearly undid me.
I kissed down her body.
Her breasts.
Her stomach.
Her thighs.
When I tore away her panties—her gasp fed something feral inside me.
And when I flipped her onto the bed? Her pulse thundered like war drums. The sound of blood rushing through her veins was like a symphony to me.
And how I hungered for her.
“Unnasta,” I murmured.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are mine. My love. My betrothed. My mate.”
Mine.
Mine.
MINE.
She whimpered and her scent grew thicker. Headier.
Fuck, I loved her scent.
The feeling of her slick heat beneath my fingers.
The taste of her—silver fire and rainstorms and death magic blooming beneath my tongue.
Right then, my hunger fractured into two.
Bloodlust—yes.
Plain lust—for her.
And for the first time in centuries—they felt the same.
I wanted her more than blood.
More than air.
More than survival.
And that realization terrified me more than any curse ever had.
Mine.
