voice raw and harsh.
Her nod was slow in coming.
Then he knew. The woman in front of him wasn’t some dream girl his imagination had conjured to taunt him in the night. The haze that seemed to surround her in his dreams was gone. She lay before him in sharp focus. Osborn remembered the utter helplessness he’d felt, raged against, when he tried to draw her back to him that last time. How he’d failed.
Somehow she’d put herself there. She was responsible for all the anguished desire he’d felt. All his want. Need. His yearning for something he could never have.
Thought he could never have.
His.
Yes, she was his.
His berserkergang was wrong to back down, assessing the woman in his bed posed no risk. Everything about her was a threat to him. And still the chill signaling the approach of his berserkergang did not hit him.
Something must have been in his eyes, or the set of his lips must have alerted some self-preservation instinct inside her. He reached for her again. And that’s when she screamed.
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