He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly with a certain amused air.
“The gazelle speaking informally to the lion,” he says with a mocking tone. “Perhaps you’ll serve me better as a jester than as food.”
A flush, having nothing to do with shame, tints my cheeks. I bite my tongue not to speak further, so hard I might even draw blood. My fingers fumble at the seat behind me, looking for support to get up.
“Your heart is beating so fast it’s almost like you’re begging me to let you taste my fangs…” He leans in his seat, looking down at me from his dominant position while I’m still sprawled on the floor of the carriage. I see his tongue caress one of his sharp fangs. “…on your neck…” His eyes darken until that cerulean hue almost vanishes. “…or maybe on other, more tender parts.”
We
