She was warm in his arms, her pulse faster than it had been earlier but still slow and steady. Its staccato rhythm seduced him, pulled him deeper into the pool of want in which he had been treading water all day. Throughout his long life he had often wondered what it was that pulled certain people together—call it chemistry, call it lust, call it love. Whatever its title, it was a potent force, and it had done him in the second he had looked down from that tree and seen Anastasia’s raven-dark head as she crouched in the mud. Releasing his grip on her hands, he grasped the blade that was pressed flat between their bodies and tossed it to the ground. He hissed into Anastasia’s mouth when the silver singed his fingers. She turned her head and sucked the injured digits between her lips, laving the sore skin with her tongue. His fangs descended at the pressure. He saw her immense eyes widen at the sight of the bone white against his lips, but he heard no increase in her heartbeat.
