Roarke Fire roars in my chest, consuming me, leaving me breathless. She is a vision. Her long hair is tousled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight. She has no idea how sexy she is, how she affects men, how her curves awaken the beasts, the alphas, the ones with the need to hunt, and claim. I know how she affects me. I wanted her dead. I wanted to cut into that soft, white throat, let the knife work its way through skin, muscles, tendons and vessels until I'd have buried it deep inside the delicate vertebrae of her neck. I thought taking her life would give me my own life back, the life I threw away after she shot me. But that was then, when we first met, when she came so close to killing me. That was when I slept, healed, and was delirious as I dreamt of vengeful goddesses. The need for revenge has matured. Grown. It has transformed into something larger than life. Something sacred. I will bring her down, even if it takes us all the way to Hell. Her soul, her submission, her very being needs to be mine. It has to happen. My fingers grip her flesh, bruises her already marred skin. It terrifies her and excites her. I smell it on her, see it in her eyes. Fright, arousal, confusion. I am the only one who can give her what she needs. It’s almost like love. Not that I know what people call love, but it feels close enough. I have to make her mine, need to drag her down to the abyss of my world. I know that a piece of what makes a person human is missing in me, has always been missing. I never felt anything before I met her. Ever. But now: desire, rage. It’s a new experience, and I relish every single moment.