Great Bear Wilderness Take me to church,

Lorcan's gaze lingered on her, intrigued rather than repelled by her confession. For him, killing was neither penance nor passion, but merely a matter of course—a transaction, perhaps, as common as the shifting of one season to another. Yet, he knew from experience that the motives driving others often revealed much about them.

Does it count? he repeated, his tone an echo of contemplation, soft as a shadow slipping over stone. The act itself, perhaps not. It's the feeling that matters. What was it for you—necessity, thrill, or... something else?

He leaned closer, breath fanning her cheeks, the glint of something dark and knowing in his eye. And tell me, did it leave you wanting more?

He'd danced with death enough to know the rhythms—kill after kill, each its own flavor, its own mark on the soul. Morality didn’t enter into it, and he cared nothing for penance. But to feel it, to relish it—that was where the secret lay.