Literature
Obsidian Hunger
Night drapes the city in black velvet, the kind that swallows sound and bends the moonlight into pale, trembling pools. She stands on the terrace of a crumbling tower, the wind tugging at her hair, her gown clinging to curves that burn beneath its silk. The scent of damp stone and night-blooming roses curls around them, heavy with promise.
He appears from shadow, as inevitable as darkness itself. Horns gleam black in the pale light, sigils along his arms glowing faintly, reacting to her very presence. His eyes burn, coal-deep and infinite, and the air shivers as he approaches.
“No more games,” he growls, voice velvet wrapped around steel. Every step toward her is measured, predatory, and yet unbearably deliberate. “Not tonight.”
She swallows, pulse leaping, desire threading every nerve. “I am yours,” she admits, voice low and deliberate, no trace of hesitation—her claim, her surrender, her invitation all in one.
He closes the distance in two long, sure strides, and the wind
