Bjorn leans in real close. His face is all dark, carved, and calm—like the eye of a storm, right before it tears your spine out and leaves your soul twitching in the dirt.

The man tries to hold his ground.

His legs dangle, kicking weakly, his hands clawing at Bjorn’s wrist like that’ll do a damn thing. His eyes are wide now—wild and white, like he’s just realized he walked into something ancient and mean and holy.

“Did you think she was for you?” Bjorn growls, his voice a low, lethal purr.

The man opens his mouth. Nothing comes out but a pathetic, gasping wheeze—like a fish flopping around, already halfway gutted.

Oh, honey. It’s so cute when they can’t answer.

“She isn’t,” Bjorn growls.

Then, without a single warning, he doesn’t drop him—he swings.

Bjorn grabs the man by the jaw and slams his head against the altar stone with a sickening crack. Once. Twice. A third time, for good measure.

Skull meets stone. Stone wins.

Blood sprays across Bjorn’s chest in a hot, arterial mist. It streaks down his tattoos, glistening like war paint. The man goes limp in his hands, his body twitching once before going still—a ruined pulp of red and bone at Bjorn’s feet.

The crowd loses their fucking minds.

Someone screams. Someone else howls. A woman moans so loud it sounds like she’s coming just from the kill.

Bjorn lets the body drop, casual as sin, his hand dripping in gore.

He turns, his jaw flexing, nostrils flared. Blood slicks down his stomach, his face, the edge of his beard.

He looks like a goddamn altar come to life.

And he’s looking at me.

I smile sweetly, licking my lips, and ohhh fuck me sideways.

I melt. Right there.

Like a candle made of pure crazy.

Bjorn doesn’t just look at me.

He consumes me.

Like fire licking at gasoline. Like a prayer right before the plunge.

My stomach tightens. My breath catches. My whole body goes hot and tight like a bowstring begging to snap.

Then he grips the silks with one massive paw and yanks.

I fall.

Straight into him.

Chest to chest. Skin to sweat-slicked skin.

My legs wrap around his hips on instinct, and I swear I could purr.

He catches me like I’m sacred. Like I’m sin. Like I’m both at the same time.

“Ma petite mort,” he growls, brushing his lips against my cheek.

Shivers? Fucking everywhere.

And then I see it—his jaw, his chest, his hands—slick and dripping in fresh blood. Still warm, still steaming in the torchlight.

The man he just shattered? Already forgotten.

His blood, though? Still fresh. Still warm and slick across Bjorn’s chest like a fucking masterpiece.

And me?

I’m soaked just looking at him.

The bloodier he gets, the wetter I get. That’s just math, baby.