The Lycan King’s Playtoy
I could read terror in its eyes—just like mine had looked that day.
The bow trembled under my grip, and the arrow galloped unsteadily. A treacherous, slow weight bore down steadily against the string, digging painfully into my fingers. In the wink of an eye, the hare was staring back at me, large dark eyes bored straight into mine, begging with every fiber of its being. It was a sweep of pain from my chest that clamped tightly around the heart and just would not let go. I could not do it. I could not shoot it. The arrow tumbled out of my fingers, landing softly on the stone floor. After that, I let go of the bow, choking painfully over my breath.