The kiss didn’t end. It devoured. What began as brutal collision—her mouth smashing into his with enough force to bruise bone—slowly twisted into sothing blacker, wetter, more obscene. Sothing that swallowed breath, reason, and every last shred of restraint.
Dravenna kissed him like she wanted to unmake him through his mouth. Like four years of pent-up, clawing celibacy had finally been given warm at to rip into. Her tongue plunged deep—brutal, claiming, stroking his with thick, sloppy, pornographicdrags that reeked of starvation and dominance.
She sucked his bottom lip until the skin split and hot copper blood, bit down vicious enough to tear a bead of blood, then dragged her tongue over the wound in one long, filthy, savoring lick that made his growl vibrate against her teeth.
Phei tried to take it back. Tried to fist her jaw, angle her, fuck her mouth on his terms.
She snapped his wrists up—delicate fingers clamping like steel traps—and smashed them into the bookshelf above his head. Volus shuddered. A heavy to crashed to the floor. Neither of them gave a damn.
ssage received. He yielded—not out of defeat, never defeat—but because letting this dragon gorge on him was the most intoxicating violence he’d ever chosen.
Her hunger was a living thing—panting, rabid, barely leashed.
He felt it in how her body sealed itself to his: lethal, liquid curves lting over him like silver poured straight onto burning iron. Her breasts mashed flat against his chest—hard, aching firm peaks stabbing through silk like dagger points, scraping him raw with every shuddering inhale she stole from his lungs.
Her hips rolled in slow, obscene circles, dragging her probably dripping, swollen cunt along the brutal length of his cock—soaking through layers of fabric, claiming him with slick, territorial heat that left him throbbing and leaking in return.
She tore her mouth away—just far enough to rasp air—lips battered crimson, slick with spit and the bright sar of his blood, eyes slitted feral jade, pupils engorged until only molten rings of green fire remained.
"You," she croaked, voice was like a shattered glass and horny, quaking with bone-deep craving. "What are you?"
Phei had no fucking answer.
She didn’t want one either.
She lunged again—teeth on his jaw, scraping skin raw, tongue painting the column of his throat before she sucked viciously, pulling dark, throbbing blooms of bruise to the surface.
Her claws shredded his shirt—buttons exploding like small-caliber rounds, cloth tearing open—baring flesh she imdiately ravaged. Mouth, teeth, tongue everywhere—biting, sucking, painting his collarbones and chest with wet, possessive welts.
Phei’s head slamd back against the shelf—books groaning, another statue shattering on the floor—a low, broken growl ripping out of him as his hips snapped forward, grinding his leaking, straining cock into the soft heat of her belly like he could fuck through both their clothes.
He clung to the shelf behind him. Held on like a man about to be consud alive.
She pulled back. Just enough. Just enough to devour him with her gaze—those glowing, slitted jade eyes raking over his face like she was morizing the exact shape of her next al.
"Your shirt," she said. Command, not question.
Fabric parted. She shoved it off his shoulders.
And froze.
The word never left her mouth, but it scread across her face:Oh.
Her eyes blew wide. Breath snagged hard. Hands hovered—trembling—over the carved, lethal expanse of his chest like touching him might shatter the dream, like proving he was real would break her.
Phei’s body was a weapon. And she had just realized she was holding the blade to her own throat.
The molting had forged him. Fucking forged him. One single night of brutal, bone-shattering, soul-tearing agony—screaming until his throat ruptured and bled, body seizing, convulsing, breaking as the card ripped him molecule by molecule and rebuilt him into sothing that had no goddamn right to exist on a seventeen-year-old fra.
The kind of physique that made master sculptors curse their own useless hands in envy and turned grown won into forgetful, trembling wrecks—forgetting their nas, their vows, their gods, reduced to nothing but the primal, clawing need to touch, to taste, to shatter themselves against him.
Beautiful. Broken. Godlike. Blasphemous.A living contradiction sewn from scraps of paradise and the deepest pits of hell and I want it!
Dravenna stared at him like he was the final revelation she wasn’t sure her sanity would survive.
"How," she breathed—voice cracked open, shaking apart—"are you even fucking real?"
Her fingers finally touched. Trembling. Reverent. Terrified. The first brush was ghost-light—fingertips skimming the fever-hot swell of his pecs, tracing the vicious edge where muscle t bone like she feared he’d dissolve if she dared press harder.
She exhaled—shattered, shuddering—like even that fragile contact had stolen every molecule of air from her lungs.
Phei’s breath snagged—hard, loud, audible—a raw hitch in his chest.
Her touch was fire. Not clean-burning. Slow-searing, soul-deep, vicious. Every nerve the molting card had weaponized for slaughter had been retuned for pleasure just as brutally—and now he was paying the price in full.
Or reaping the reward.
Hard to tell when every feather-light stroke felt like lightning-tongues licking across raw, exposed nerves.
"Years," Dravenna murmured—more to the gods than to him, voice low, thick, reverent—"years of starving, aching, clawing hunger... and then you walk into my office looking like this."
Her palms slamd flat against his chest. Pressed. Hard. Felt the wild, violent war-drum of his heart trying to punch through ribs and skin and bury itself in her hands. From the new ability alone, he knew—he could taste the black, coiled rage still simring inside her, waiting, ravenous, to be unleashed.
"It’s not fair," she whispered—voice splintering like glass under pressure.
Then she kissed his collarbone. Soft. Almost holy. A trembling brush of lips against burning skin.
Then lower.
Her mouth dragged—open, wet, ravenous—down the newly bared chest.
No finesse. No rcy.
Lips sealed and sucked, pulling vicious purple blooms across the thick slabs of his pecs. Teeth scraped, then sank—sharp enough to draw tiny beads of blood that she lapped up imdiately, tongue coiling like sothing alive and starving.
Then ca the tongue itself—longer than it had any right to be, impossibly flexible.
It slithered. Slow. Deliberate. Hot, cooling, it tingled and burned at once—numbing the surface while setting every deeper layer on fire, curling around a nipple to pinch and twist then dragged a lazy, obscene line straight down the center of his sternum, leaving a glistening trail that felt like liquid starlight mixed with frostbite.
She licked slow, sloppy stripes down the brutal trenches of his abs—tongue flattening wide to cover as much skin as possible, then narrowing to spear between the ridges, dipping into every carved valley like she was mining sothing precious.
She slithered lower, tracing the sharp V of his hips, teasing the waistband of his pants with wet, deliberate flicks that made his cock jerk hard enough to bruise itself against the zipper.
Each kiss lingered—devoured—savoring like she was branding every inch of him into her soul with her mouth, in case the universe tried to steal him again.
Phei’s head crashed back against the bookshelf.Fuck.
Books rattled. A low, broken groan tore from his throat despite his clenched teeth.
This wasn’t kissing.
This was worship.
This was desecration.
She was consuming him inch by trembling inch—pouring years of pent-up, feral, clawing hunger onto skin that had never known anything close. The tongue kept moving—relentless, exploratory, possessive—curling around the edge of a rib, flicking the underside, then sliding back up to lap at the hollow of his throat like she could taste his pulse.
Every pass left him slick, marked, claid.
All he could do was stand there, muscles quaking, cock throbbing so viciously against his pants it hurt, fighting the broken, animal sounds clawing up his throat—growls, whimpers, curses—while that impossible tongue painted ownership across his body in strokes no mortal could ever match.
Her lips found one center.
She kissed it. Gently.
Then she bit—hard, sudden—teeth sinking into the fragile edge, ripping a raw, guttural groan from deep in his chest as pain and pleasure collided like thunder.
She licked the bite. Soothed it. Then sucked—vicious, relentless—
Her tongue tracked lower again—following the coarse, dark trail of hair arrowing down his abs, dipping into the shadowed V-lines that plunged toward his waistband like geography made for sin.
She nipped the tender skin there, sucked a deep, throbbing bruise into the hollow above his hip, moaned—low, broken, desperate—against him like she’d just tasted divinity and it was better than heaven.
Phei’s hands fisted at his sides—knuckles bone-white, fighting every screaming instinct to grab her, slam her down, ruin her the way she was unmaking him.
She looked up. Slitted jade eyes glowing, feral. Lips swollen, glistening, sared with spit and the faint copper of him.
She had this unholy need in her eyes.
"You taste like sin," she whispered—voice—"and I’m already burning for more."
Then she kissed him again—lower.
And Phei knew he was already burning.
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