He pulled out, c**k shiny with spit, and stalked to the door naked. Lydia scrambled up, grabbing a robe from a chair, her heart racing. Through the window, she saw shadows—three figures in cloaks, chanting low. Witch hunters, drawn by the magic burst.
Ragnar burst out the door with a roar, claws out. The fight was brutal. He slashed one across the chest, blood spraying. Another threw a spell, blue light hitting his side, burning fur. He howled in pain, tackling the guy, fangs ripping throat. The third ran a knife at his back, but Lydia—bond fueling her—leaped out, her fangs bared. She bit the hunter's neck, sucking deep, his blood hot and coppery. Strength surged deep inside; the bond made her fast, strong.
Together, they finished it. Ragnar snapped the last neck, their bodies crumpling
