Page 144 of Griffin Food

My tail lashes from side to side.

My wings stand high, rigid and proud.

And then, my heart beating heavily in my chest, I hook my barbs and empty my seed into her hot, welcoming cunt. Her nourishment floods me, bathing me in a surge of power. I throb in an echo of my pulsing release—growing, strengthening.

Heat and icy cold.

I shudder as the last throes of my climax grip me.

Gods, the power is near overwhelming. I tingle all over, skin shooting sparks as I gaze upon Violet, panting helplessly beneath me, lost somewhere in a hazy place between wakefulness and dream.

In her rapturous expression, I glimpse what we are about to unleash.

Lark

Rafe.

We were friends before Violet came along. Good ones. Though things deepened once the traveling began… when she went into heat.

But this is something else entirely.

This is the resonant bond in the making.

There was a time when my wolf lingered in the darkness of my mind, quiet, patient. Content—or so I believed. Then Atlas broke something loose. Something dark and primal. Now I cannot imagine existing any other way.

Yet this half-shift, this werebeast form… It is different again.

It reaches deeper into that wild place.

Pure Beast.

I cannot stop fucking drooling. Disconcerting, to say the least. The scent of her—hot, wet, aroused—mixed with the heavy musk of her other mates’ lust fills the air and drives straight into the back of my skull.

It does things to me I cannot control.

It is my turn.

My turn to feed.

A primal wildness courses through me as I step between her spread thighs, staring at the evidence of her recent coupling dripping from her swollen slit.

My hands are more animal than human, rough where they rest tentatively against the soft flesh of her hips. This form carries power I barely recognize as my own.

The damage I could do like this…

“You are more controlled than you realize,” Atlas says.

His words steady me, though the ritual's energy still churns inside my veins. I feel impossibly strong. My white coat shimmers in the light, and I don't quite know what to make of it.

Her eyes are glassy.

But there is no fear in them. I do not think I could touch her if there were. For all that I want her—Gods, how I want her—a part of me would recoil if she flinched. If she feared what I am in this moment.

But she does not.

Instead, she reaches out and takes my massive, gnarled hand in her tiny palm. She turns it over as though it were nothing more than a man’s fingers, not a killing weapon. And then, as if I am not already breaking for her, she presses that hand firmly against her plump tit.

I squeeze.