Gretchen’s hand found its way to Marconi’s throat. In the next minute Gretchen had Marconi against the wall, teeth bared, her blood hot and thrumming with the beloved and familiar rage that she so rarely let herself feel. The pounding was in her veins now. “You think you know me,” Gretchen whispered, white creeping in at the edges of her vision. “You think you’ve clipped my claws, little Bambi. But don’t forget what I am.” Marconi didn’t shrink beneath the implied threat, simply met Gretchen’s gaze with those light amber eyes of hers. When she answered, her tone was dry. “A nonviolent
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