The black thorns of Murkkill Woods. The leeching muck of Algray Swamp. The sharp-toothed dreadwort. The cold. The moat. The keep.
Worth it. The clawed marks, the contusions, the finger lost to a giant brood worm—all worth it. Her sleeping form, inert and available. Her pale, voluptuary flesh. The rotted blouse crumbles at his touch. The skirt pulls up. Breeches off. On top of his beauty. So deep asleep. Surely one kiss will not hurt…
Talons extend. Teeth gleam. She wakes. He screams. And he learns, all too well, that sometimes it is best to let sleeping things lie.
Author’s note: Okay, lesson learned. The best things in life come from an ice cream stand, not a murky wood.
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