Fairspell Meadow she picked wild flowers

Odds did not dissuade the vile hound, in any given circumstance. He lacked the inhibitors that would otherwise tell him he was in a dangerous situation. Most caution had been lost long before his arrival in the wilds. Ithrik thrived and existed only on the immediate desire that he felt. His mind was calculated enough to get him what he wanted, and he would do almost anything to get it. This was such a case; he saw something that he desired and he would stop at almost nothing to get her underneath him. The taste of her flesh against his tongue would be rife with fear and anger; it would send him over the edge.

The devil wasn't wrong. When his fangs sunk into her skin and the first beads of blood began to swell and leak onto his writhing tongue, his eyes rolled back into his head and he groaned with delight. Her body crumbled beneath his weight and he fell on top of her, moving to wrap his legs around her upper half. He would hold tight until he had finished. All at once, that fear flooded his system and he could almost feel himself inside of her already. The decay of terror that had brought her to the earth was enough to make his legs quiver out of anticipation.

A snarl escaped from the back of his throat as he attempted to thrust at her rear. Each push of his body brought him to yank backwards with his teeth. Through her ribs, Ithrik could feel her heart thrumming wildly like a war drum. He relished the sensation for as long as he could, aching with the need to bury himself inside of her and leave her bleeding in the snow.