Stavanger Bay Really bad eggs.

The way she moved infuriated him - not because she escaped his grasp at the last second, but the fact that she wouldn't stop fighting back, she wouldn't let him have this win so easily — he snapped uselessly after her, moving closer like some kind of creature possessed. The woman did not parry his advances; there was no need, the violence had overtaken him and he was a frenzied mass of inexact flailing. 

It didn't matter. Even if he had been focused on the task of taking her apart, he would've been slow and deliberate about it. Taken his revenge with every strip of flesh torn from her — idealizing the carnage so that he could remember it always. A cut for each slight her sex had ever made to him. A pound of flesh for Rosalyn; a strip of hide for each woman he'd ever bedded; she even boasted a pale coat like the man who had pinned him to the sand — and the thought inspired a more sinister craving that he had no name for. The rest of her would be picked clean by the vultures of the crags but somewhere amidst this chaos, he would find a piece and keep it hidden for himself.

Something to remind him of the conquest.

But none of that could happen — he was too basic in his rage. Reduced to scrambling after her and struggling to get what he wanted, again, and again, but failing at every turn.