Chapter 8 · After the Bite

His teeth were still in my throat.

Blood ran hot down my collarbone and soaked into the furs. Behind him the fire roared. Somewhere above us the storm kept hammering at the cracked stone.

I didn't move. When a wolf has your pulse in his mouth, you don't.

Then the burn hit.

Two years that mark had been dead. A scar. A cold patch of skin I'd learned not to touch. Now it lit up like someone had poured melted iron under it. I gasped, and my back came off the furs.

"Vane." It came out cracked. "Vane, let go."

He made a sound against my skin. It wasn't a word. It was low and wrecked, and I felt it in my ribs.

His fangs slid out slowly. The pain was bright and then it was gone, and what came after was worse. Warmth. It rolled through me from the bite down to my knees, and my body, my traitor body, leaned into it.

I hated that more than the teeth.

He lifted his head. His eyes were still gold, still wrong, but something behind them had stopped thrashing. His breath came in hard pulls.