Ravensblood Forest and iron filling her lungs

She feels his eyes run over her body and she can't help but give a sly smirk, despite the intensity of the ritual she has consented to. She is well aware of her beauty, and if it weren't so beneath her status would have made a fine Enchantress, as her pack called the lustful shewolves that were sent to gather information. His eyes in her made her throat clench, and the first touch of his tongue illicits a small gasp before she snaps her jaws shut again, eyes fixed forward. 
Her father would disown her for these thoughts, were he still alive to do so. Her mother, probably either pregnant or nursing Vladimir's runts, would faint at the scandal of her daughter consorting with a filthy mutt. 
He moans against her flesh and her tail arches high over her back. Mine. She wants to snarl. You are mine. My flesh is yours, and only I can make you utter such noises. 
The thought jars her. It isn't love, for she doesn't even know what that means. It is a possession, a devotion, an expectation. He is hers. And she is his. 
"My blood becomes yours. My flesh becomes yours. My strength becomes yours." She growls, reciting the ritual. "For the strength of the wolf is the blood. And the strength of the pack is the wolf."