Honeyed Pasture one false prayer wielding blasphemy

She wasn’t intimidated by his display, something both slightly infuriating as much as it appeased him. His lip curled back to show just more than the sharp teeth set in his mouth but the paleness of his gumline as another deep growl rumbled in his throat. They made the sounds of savagery, pure and unfettered ferocity that played testament to their superior nature as predators.

“Go,” he demanded of her, the words bubbling out through his grumbling, cumbersome off a worn, chewed tongue. He was doubtful it would work, though he chose not to make any sign of it. They both knew what the end result would be if either one of them decided not to heel to the other’s will—such was the way of their kind at the primal base. Yield, or suffer.

And he did not entirely wish to mar a pretty face fixed on a kindred spirit.