DROGO
The bag jerks on its chain with every strike, leather groaning under my fist. Sweat drips from the curve of my jaw, falling soundlessly to the floor. My knuckles throb, my breath seizes with every hit. But I don’t stop.
A hiss slips between my teeth as the eleventh bag bursts, swallowing my fist.
Weren’t these bags supposed to be strong?
Fûck.
I draw my hand out with a sharp inhale. The sand follows, scattering and cracking against the floor. Then I grab the bottle of whiskey on the bench and let the liquor burn its way down my throat. The burn irritates me, but I need anything that will keep my wolf at bay.
It's hungry. Really f*****g hungry, and I will not give it what it wants.
I lust over her, and I curse myself for feeling anything from her touch when no other woman coul
