Ravensblood Forest What was Sheogorath cooking?

As a rule, Aegaeon did not enjoy women. The only son of a witch who had desired daughters, the curse placed upon her in absence of sister and mother and nieces, he had grown first to hate himself — then to resent these differences, something more than just cosmetic. Men had laughed at him, at first; they'd teased him and taunted, pretty as a girl and quick to cry as one too. But they were honest, and he'd learned. He'd thrived in the company of men.

He'd sworn to never take a wife.

As a witch, Aegaeon knew an exception existed to every rule. He knew that, but even so, he hated her the moment he saw her. A chimeric little thing, thick in the limbs, all red and grey and black. Not pretty, but he wanted her, and he hated that.

A few quick steps brought him closer, bristling, and in an instant she'd turned on him with eyes flaring and teeth bared. A dance of razor edges and reddened lips; hard to tell whether the blood was hers or his, whether they fought or courted then. Soon they fell to a tangle of limbs, exhausted.

Soon he rose again and turned.

He did not look back.

He would not tie himself to a woman. Not again.