Dawn breaks over the French Quarter, but the beast inside me hasn't settled. It's prowling, restless. I find myself staring at the canvas, brush dripping crimson, thinking not of war, but of the raw, desperate sounds a woman makes when you're buried deep inside her. When you've got her legs wrapped tight around you, nails digging into your back, screaming your name as you split her open. That moment when her eyes roll back, when her cunt clenches around your cock like it's trying to milk the soul right out of you. That's true power. Not the throne, not the crown. It's hearing a woman beg for your cum, begging you to ruin her for anyone else. That’s the only thing that quiets the wolf.