Betrothed to the devil himself
How can a man born of vengeance touch me as though I am the only flame that warms him?
Her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging, urging, surrendering. His lips moved lower, tracing fire down her collarbone, his horn grazing her hair. She trembled, torn between fear and a hunger that had long since burned away the edges of innocence.
Their passion devoured the night again — bodies entwined, breath stolen, souls colliding until no space remained between them. Every gasp, every cry, every shiver wove them tighter, not merely as man and woman but as king and queen bound in something deeper than lust: a dangerous, unbreakable devotion.
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