She looked up into the fanged depths of his gaping jaws and smiled. “I,” she purred, “am going to enjoy killing you.” Then she smacked the hilt of the dagger embedded in his chest, shoving it an inch closer to her target. Christ, she wasn’t shy at all, was she? The hesitation, the demure smiles and lowered lashes—it had all been a trap. She wasn’t sweet or gentle or biddable. She was a bloodthirsty fucking murderer. His heart sang.
