“Desmond Flynn, King of the Night, by law of my kingdom, I order you to stop,” Mara’s voice booms. Arm pulled back, Des hesitates, his breathing heavy and ragged. His hair, which he’d previously worn combed away from his face, now hangs in wild tendrils. I’ve seen my mate when he’s all coiled rage, but I have only rarely seen him like this: messy with his anger. There’s something so very…raw about it.
