Imprint

He possessed azure eyes, which were clouded with darkness, poisoned by bitterness and hatred, dimmed of their livelihood and positivity, and overshadowed by his trepidations.

She had not imprinted; she simply had not.

But her heart roared with frustration and overwhelmed her with a fresh wave of emotions, which flooded her chest, dispersed to the pit of her stomach, filling her with nerves and forgotten butterflies, and crawled up her throat, strangling her, containing her, vexing her. She had not imprinted. A horrid migraine attacked her, causing the veins on her head to vibrate erratically and pulsate.

She had not imprinted!

Her body convulsed, shuddered extremely, trembled to the point where her temples burned, her stomach became queasy with nerves, and her head whirled from dizziness. She plunged to the ground, fingers scratching her chest, eyes gathering moisture, bosom heaving in an unsteady pace. Screeching, imploring, crying, she accepted Fate.

She had imprinted.

And her heart purred with approval.