Jiang Qingli's lips hurt.
As her senses returned, so too did the searing pain on her lips.
She had never seen Qin Muye act so much like a dog. His canines nipped and ground against her lips. He was like a dog starved for a decade that had just spotted a meaty bone—all reason tossed aside, driven purely by the instinct to gnaw.
Several times, she even suspected Qin Muye might eat her alive.
She looked up at Qin Muye.
Qin Muye was looking at her, too.
The side of his face she had just slapped was faintly red, but the male snow leopard's eyes held no anger at being struck, nor any shame for being defied. He stared intently at the girl in his arms, his gaze even hotter than before.
A hungry dog that's never tasted meat is one thing. What's far more terrifying is a dog that's had a taste but still isn't satisfied.
It's had a taste, so it knows just how delicious it is.
And it will be thinking, constantly, about getting another bite.
