Regan didn’t delay. Her hand was already on the doorknob by the time Warren invited her in. She entered and shut the door behind her quickly, almost as if someone was giving chase on the other side and needed to be kept out. Once the door was shut she’d look up and just…stand there, staring at him.

She didn’t remember just what she’d intended to say first, exactly. Didn’t recall what reason she’d planned to toss at his feet for calling on him at this hour. It had all evaporated in the kiln of her ire that burned in her chest. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes faintly flickering with copper as her scars caught shadows in the lamplight.

Regan let him. She buried her face in his chest, clinging to him like he were the ledge of a canyon she was about to fall into. Her breathing didn’t slow. Her skin was feverishly warm to the touch and she trembled ever so slightly in his arms. Regan didn’t know what she needed. She knew what she wanted, but needing and wanting were two very different things.

Eventually, she tipped her chin back to look up at Warren though she continued to cling to him. Anger still churned behind her eyes, fed by the fire that always burned hungrily within her.

“She’s dead?”

Regan did, but she wanted to hear it again. Wanted to envision the witch’s body falling as it was hacked to pieces. Regan wished she could have done it herself. She could almost taste the blood on her tongue, feel the flesh beneath her fangs as she sank into the woman’s body.

“You got me out,” Regan said, gaze flickering over Warren’s face. She was looking for something in the lines of his face, in the arch of his brow, and the rugged cut of his features.

Regan shuddered as Warren’s hand dropped down to her face. For a moment, she thought she was going to cry. She could feel the hot, angry tears boiling behind her eyes, reaching a pitch before they subsided.

“The king called in a favor to the prince in Arynn Frey. Fixed me up—well, as best as could be done, anyway. But I’m fine…” Regan trailed off, still holding onto him with what could only be described as desperation. Her gaze drifted over his face as if she too were tracing every line.

Warren’s calm and care was equal parts soothing and agitating. As Warren spoke, Regan grew increasingly distracted, tears still close to the surface. No, she wasn’t fine. She wanted to set the world to burn; to tear her prey to pieces and be devoured herself. Warren’s gentle touch only stoked that fire. Catharsis—that’s how she’d described it before—but now the word seemed insufficient to capture the hunger that the full moon was tugging to the surface. To give in to it promised to erase all the anger, insecurity, and fear. The angry tears started to fade, but her eyes still burned as she fixed her gaze on Warren.

“I don’t want to talk—” Regan whispered in a plea as she pulled Warren closer. She took his hand by the wrist, pulling it from her scars and dropping it firmly to her waist instead.

Regan was, for all her complications, a very simple creature. She indulged her animal desires despite the consequences that came with them. Regan had never stopped being the needy child, the one that reached for affection with grabby hands, never trusting it would last. Thinking that now was forever was the mistake she’d made with Logan—in an office, not all that different than this one. She’d made it again with Rhysand, and with Keelan, and with Grant, and on and on until finally—finally—she’d learned her lesson.

In the end, 'now' was all that you could count on. And now, she needed the world to stop. Regan didn’t want to think; she wanted someone else to do it for her.

Warren tugged on her hair and Regan shuddered in his arms, a soft growl vibrating through her body. There were risks involved in all of this, whether Warren realized it or not—fire safety among them. But his grip was strong and commanding, so when he whispered in her ear she nodded with eager, docile compliance.