Alaric's pounce was no mere clumsy lunge of a savage brute attacking the utterly naked Archmage Priscilla, whose fine robes he had so unceremoniously torn from her form moments earlier.
It was the calculated, silent, and wholly inescapable descent of a supreme predator upon its designated prey. One single, heart-stopping moment, Priscilla stood frozen in the grand doorway, her analytical mind a raging whirlwind of pure, unadulterated shock and profound disgust.
The very next, she was airborne, only to be slammed down onto the massive, fur-strewn bed. The crushing weight of his powerful, muscular body was a terrifying, suffocating reality that drove the air from her lungs.
