Page 95 of Marked By His Hunger
Wings that cut through rain.
Large black wings that snapped open like blades.
Lightning forked behind him, outlining massive shoulders and spiraled horns and a body built like it had been sculpted for war.
He hit the Daemon mid-lunge.
The impact shook the cliff.
I stumbled backward and fell hard onto the stone, barely dodging the creature’s whipping tail. My palms scraped. My hip slammed into rock.
And then I looked up.
Oh.
Oh no.
He was beautiful.
Not in a safe way.
Not in a gentle way.
In a dangerous way.
His skin was black as a raven’s wing, but not flat—it shimmered with an undertone like polished obsidian.
Runes burned violet across his chest and shoulders, not tattooed, not inked, but alive.
Each mark pulsed with fire beneath the skin, as if molten light flowed through carved channels in his body.
He roared—deep, primal—as the Daemon struck him in the abdomen.
“Ooof!”
I flinched.
The second slug-thing was slithering toward him from behind, its circular mouth opening in eager anticipation.
He growled.
And I felt it.
Not heard.
Felt.
Two parts rage.
One part worry.
For me.
The sensation hit my sternum like heat.
How did I know what he was feeling?
Why did it feel like it mattered?
