She was probably going to break him, even further than he was already physically broken, bring him nearer to death than he had ever been - and yet, Terrence had never felt so alive. He ignored every ache in his muscles except for the one that kept him magnetized to her, gasping at the feeling of her hands breaking his skin.
Then he got lost in the heat of her mouth, in the jagged shivers her grip on his hair sent down his spine, in the feeling of her warm - but not hot, as it usually was - skin being bared beneath his hands as he ripped away the clothes she had died in. And then, fuck, he felt one of those new fangs on his lip. Desire redoubled and blazed inside him, inexplicably intrigued by this devilish addition to the familiar contours of her teeth.
It never even occurred to him to be afraid, confused, and definitely not repulsed; he knew vaguely that this was different than the time she'd sharpened her nails and teeth for the purpose of faking a werewolf attack, and when he could think again he would know precisely why. But he had called her a she-devil for a reason; her hold on him was practically inhuman, and cooler skin and sharper teeth wasn't going to change that.
Spurred by the wildness and adrenaline that had been keeping him going, he tore the last of her clothing away and wrenched her around to press her back against the pole instead, every line of his body pressed against hers. Human, devil, somewhere in between - it didn't matter. Whatever she was, she was his, and he laid claim to her with his mouth and teeth, as if he still felt that he needed to burn life into her with his touch.