Tristan's stance shifted as he sensed the change in her, his onyx claws gouging furrows into the age-blackened stones beneath his paws. Every straining thew and sinew of him was primed for explosive violence, an exquisite sculpture of life and death poised on a razor's edge. And yet, impossibly, Gwendolyn saw his lips peel back from his fangs in a disturbingly human smile, at once mocking and full of dark promise.
"Come then, witch," he growled. "Let us dance, as we were always meant to..."
Gwendolyn, however, didn't immediately spring into a savage attack. Instead, she moved to her whip, picking it up with a practiced grace. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she drew a thin line of blood across her forearm, the crimson staining the leather of her whip. It was a small, almost insignific
