“You thought you were big,” I said, stepping over him now. “You thought your voice made you strong. You thought she was just another girl. But you were wrong. She is mine. And I am not a man. Not entirely. Not anymore.”
I crouched beside him, grabbed his jaw again, and forced him to look at me.
“Do you feel that pressure in the air?” I whispered. “That weight sitting on your chest? That’s death. That’s me, deciding what part of you to rip off first.”
(Start with the cock.)
My wolf’s voice was louder now. My bones cracked louder. My teeth lengthened.
(Let her watch. Let her smell his piss. Let her moan while we paint the floor red.)
I growled aloud this time—low and guttural.
And when I looked up, Lyra was still there.
Watching.
Trembling.
Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, thighs pressed
