73
It was going to kill her.
He wanted it to.
Her face—that face— He neared the woman, step by step across the narrow, shaded bridge, the turrets high above them gleaming with blinding light.
Blood covered her arms, and she panted as she backed away from him, her hands out before her, a gold ring shining on her finger. He could smell her now—the immortal, mighty blood in her veins.
“Dorian,” she said.
He did not know that name.
And he was going to kill her.