Isadora:
The blood tastes like fire.
It shouldn’t. I’ve bitten my own lip enough times to know blood is salt and copper, nothing more. But Rhett’s—Rhett’s burns. It sears down my throat, heat wrapping around my ribs until I feel hollowed out, branded from the inside.
And then I feel him.
Not Rhett the man, not Rhett the wolf—both. His beast slams into me, furious and alive, and for a moment I swear I hear its snarl behind my teeth.
My hands shake. I clutch the window ledge because the room tilts sideways, the floor trembling like it too feels his hunger. My breath rips out ragged, and my pulse—gods, my pulse isn’t mine anymore. It beats in time with his.
“Easy,” Rhett murmurs, voice raw. His palm is still against mine, blood sticky between us, sealing the vow. His eyes glow faintly,
