Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] nomajoka

A question lingered briefly in her gaze. Etienne. Anselm breathed the name into the slender space between them — almost as if giving life to his hidden thoughts were in itself a betrayal. 


Two conflicting urges warred inside Anselm. He was split between answering his biological imperative, or — what the pragmatic side of him insisted — driving her from the Hollow until her season had ended. To keep Etienne safe from her harlotry. To keep the Hollow safe from the prying urges of bachelors. 

In the end, Anselm found he wanted her for himself. The smoke signal of her scent blinded him and weaseled out his suppressed hunger. After all, he was a man — these things were his empire to control and command. It was his imperative to answer the siren call of a woman’s season, to keep her sequestered and to himself. 

He would tell himself anything to avoid acknowledging the truth. 

She’d been a good wife, once. She promised it again. In that moment words were not so important to Anselm, who felt a burgeoning throb along his midline. He lowered his head, taking deep draughts of the perfume around them. 

With limbs shaking, Anselm took the final step between them. He reached for her in a roughly wanting embrace, his fangs brushing along the side of her cheek where he had first left his mark upon her hide.