The Searing Phoenix Tavern was barely lit—a favorite den of filth, secrets, and too many loose tongues. Woowind preferred it that way. She prowled between the booths in her tight leather dress, heels clicking like war drums, the scent of blood and sweat calling her deeper.
She spotted him—a dark-haired mercenary, smug behind a whiskey glass. He reeked of confidence, the kind that begged to be broken. Her lips curled.
She slid onto his lap without invitation, nails trailing down his chest. “Buy me a drink, or offer something warmer?” she whispered, fangs just shy of grazing his ear.
He stammered. A mistake.
In minutes, she had him against the tavern’s back wall, velvet curtain barely shielding their silhouettes from curious eyes. Her thigh pressed between his legs, grinding slow, relentless. Her hand wrapped around his jaw, forcing his gaze to hers.
“You