Page 110 of Burn for Her

“Your mate is built for this lifestyle,” Malachi noted. “She’ll be an asset to us.”

Oh hell no. “She’s not to be used for anything.” Dorian’s hands tightened into fists.

“That’s her decision, don’t you think?” Malachi paused before adding, “I doubt your mate likes being told what to do or how to live.”

Dorian stared in Malachi’s direction. All he saw was black, black and more black. A few tiny twinkles of the occasional star or blob. He wanted to bark back at his king but couldn’t. Malachi was right. Lena had spent her life being shaped into what someone else wanted and she’d hated every bit of it. Rebelled against it. If Dorian brought her into this life and made her a member of the House of Death, he couldn’t force her into a safe role if she didn’t want it. Nor would he.

“Forgive me, Reaper. I wouldn’t have torn you from her if I’d known you hadn’t turned her by now. But House business is still Reaper business.”

Which meant this was Dorian’s final warning to get his shit together.

“Jesus.” He gripped the sides of his head. “I can’t bear to think of her turning into something like me.”

“Damnit, Dorian!” Lucian slammed his fist on the table. “For the love of all that’s unholy, please stop hating yourself for things you couldn’t control!”

He sat at the table, speechless. They didn’t get it. No one did.

“We’re made however we’re made,” Lucian went on. “I’m sorry your father did so much wrong, but you’ve more than made up for it your entire life!”

“You mean I’ve carried on and continued his cycle.”

“Is that what you think?” Lucian gripped Dorian’s shirt. “That you’ve continued the cycle of killing innocents?”

No… “I’m saying all I’ve done is put more men in body bags.”

“Rephrase,” Malachi commanded.

“I’ve put more Savag-Ri in body bags…” Not innocents. Never innocents.

“That’s right. You’ve protected our House since day one of your arrival.” Lucian let go of his shirt and Dorian didn’t even have the heart to straighten it out and smooth away any wrinkles. “You deny yourself any joy,” he fumed. “You refuse to live in the House with the rest of us, refuse to be part of anything other than our hunts and executions. Jesus, have you ever even come to a dinner?”

The answer was no. He wasn’t worthy. Dorian kept hunting and killing on behalf of the greater good because that was all he knew to do. The only way he could say thank you for accepting him.

Welcoming him.

Holy Hell, why hadn’t he realized his hang-ups sooner? They accepted him when he pledged fealty to Malachi, and still he pushed them all away or, at the very least, kept them at arm’s length. Victoria, Reys, Lucian, and Xin were the only ones who never took offense to his introverted ways. Same for the king.

He’d blown it. Ruined his whole life by keeping everyone away because he feared himself.

No, that wasn’t right either. He hated himself. Hated what he might one day turn into—his father. A monster.

Fear Eater. But fear was never what he tasted in those victims. It was hate. And his father forced him to drink so much… it made Dorian hate himself. “You’ll never be him,” Lucian’s voice cracked. “Jesus, Dorian, when are you going to understand that?”

Probably never. Not entirely. But he was starting to.

“The Lycan have shaken you.” Malachi’s deep voice softened.

The Lycan hadn’t, it was that damned note. “There was a piece of cardboard in the wolf’s mouth that said, Never forget, Fear Eater.” Dorian dropped his hands. “The beast was splayed in an old-fashioned wing job.”

They knew what that meant. All vampires eventually learned of Dorian’s father’s practices. The “old-fashioned wing job” was taken from ancient practices of torture. Dorian never dared to do it because no one and nothing deserved that level of pain and torment.

Do you think they can fly, son? His father would ask. If I gave them wings, would they beat the air as furiously as their heart beats blood?

“Someone had to have followed you up to pack land.” Malachi growled. “They’re doing this as a means to shake you.”

Lucian sighed somewhere to Dorian’s left. “Think it’s the House of Bone? They certainly have been persistent lately. Like a toe fungus.”

“Perhaps,” Malachi rubbed his chin.

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