by Kresley Cole
carried a killer's weapon. Her sword was double-edged, with a ricasso, an un-sharpened area on the blade just above the guard. A skilled user would loop a finger over the guard for better control. She confidently carried a sword not made for defense, not made for battle.
The creature carried steel forged to deliver quick, silent deaths.
Fascinating. An angel of death.
He'd considered it an undeserved blessing that hers would be the last face he would behold on this earth.
Yes, he'd thought her divine - until her smoldering gaze had strayed lower, and he'd recognized she was very much flesh and blood. He'd cursed his useless, deadened body. As a turned human, he had no respiration, no heartbeat, no sexual ability. He could not take her, even though he thought. . . he thought this beauty might actually receive him.
The loss of sexual pleasure had never bothered him before. His experience as a human had been limited - very limited - by war, by famine, by the need merely to survive, so he'd never felt that his turning had deprived him of much. Until now.
