Her heartbeat was a broken metronome.

She was ready to be kissed. Instead his hand touched her inner thigh.

She was an innocent young woman and, while she was not jaded or tainted by the world yet, she possessed an open wound that would fester. Already it was riddled with the maggots of fear. If she wasn’t careful, that fear would control her life.

She knew that dark place all warriors go.

She did not belong in the 18th Arrondissement. This was where good girls went to die.

Luck was a lady, and women always looked upon him with favor.

Centuries ago he’d have asked a token of her favor before this battle, and he’d have taken her as the spoils of war when it was done.

He was going to win this bout, then fuck her with the unchained, debauched craving of a man condemned to die at dawn.

She’d never been so conscious of the swaying of her hips as she was with Julian Moore walking behind her.