Desh Bouksani's point of view. Word: Savor.
He watched her over the heads of the crowd: the distinctive hair bobbing along a few feet in front of him. Frantic, panicked.
He imagined the sweat that must be starting to trickle across her skin, the goose bumps that must be trailing down her spine. The dilation of her pupils as she glanced back and saw him following, stride long and measured, intent on death.
It was almost too easy, he thought as he prowled after her. Almost too cruel. Yet, at that moment, he enjoyed it: the feeling of power, of purpose.
Almost.