Page 129 of A Debt of Darkness

“Henry wasn’t kind.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Ryan says, carrying me out of the room. “Ivy, that cunt’s going to wish you’d killed him by the time Henry’s finished with him. Henry’s going to make fucking sure the vampire who dared to touch his mate has a long and torturous and fucking painful time in the dungeons, and that wanker will beg for it to be over long before Henry decides he’s suffered enough.”

35

RIVERS OF BLOOD

HENRY

Black blood oozes from the vampire’s chest as his wounds weep, dripping thick, sticky liquid onto the floor. I’ve tasted enough of it to know his secrets, despite his fucking feeble attempts to hide them.

I know his status in the Blackthorn coven.

I know his discussions with Rowan and that meddlesome priest Emmanuel rid me of.

I know all their plans and dreams and desires for what will happen once I’m gone. Once Ivy’s gone.

I’m after something different.

Something more satisfying. More soothing.

Something bloodier and more horrific that will quell my rage.

The smell of iron and copper lingersin the air as sulfur and heat blaze through the dungeons. The flames from the torches flicker low, poorly lighting the dark, damp chamber and the shadows cast are eerie. Malevolent. Fucking glorious. They’re adding to a somewhat fitting setting for the darkness I intend to unleash, although nothing will come close to the shades of violence inside of me.

Drips count the seconds and I don’t care if they’re blood or water trickling onto the floor. I’d prefer if it was blood—his blood—but draining him too quickly will bring this to an end far sooner than I’d like. Far sooner than he deserves. Far sooner than I need.

If I drag this out and use his time well, it’ll sate the fury racing through my blood. My rage is uncontainable and every strike or lash only heightens it, sending more and more anger and violence rippling through my being and through my fucking soul.

The cunt dangling from the dungeon ceiling dared to attack Ivy. He attacked my fucking mate in my fucking house. When she should have been safe. When she was wearing my fucking collar and I’m not standing for that shit. Not here. Not now. Not fucking ever.

I’m going to make a fucking example out of this wanker.

It’s a lesson he and every other cunt who’s even considering thinking about hurting Ivy need to learn.

The vampire moans as my claws peel back another piece of skin, tearing it off his body like it’s a fucking plaster sticking everything in place. Flaying someone is an ancient skill lost to modern methods, but it’s always proved effective. Aurelius himself taught me how to drag this out, although he used it sparingly. It’s always induced fear and horror and afforded me the reputation I fucking deserve.

It’s always the little things that cause the most pain.

It isn’t the breaking of bones or the deep wound that cutsdeep into your chest.

It’s the small loss of hope. The sharp pain of a thousand cuts. The gradual realization that agony and suffering are all there is and all that ever will be. It’s the emotional component of the pain that makes it so noxious, heightening the unpleasant stimuli and turning it into something even more despicable.

And I am truly despicable.

Truly wicked.

In this moment, more than any I have endured or witnessed, I know evil and it is me. I am darkness and its depravity. I am lawlessness and its delight. I am all you fear and loathe, all you pray you never encounter and more, and I won’t back down.

The vampire’s back arches as he tries to move away, still fighting as he clings to hope. He hasn’t broken, but he will, both in body and in mind. I’ll torment him for an eternity if necessary, and it won’t be his decision. He doesn’t have a choice now. He’s here and he’s accepting the inevitability of his fate as the hope he’ll survive begins to fade.

“Rowan’s not coming for you,” I say. Cold and calculated. Hard and unfeeling. “This is all there is now.” I step toward him and drag my nail over his skin, shredding more in preparation for its removal. “There’s only me. Only my wrath.” I pull some skin back and the rip is a symphony of pain and pleasure. “Only pain and suffering.”

He screams as I tear a large flap of skin away, leaving most of the muscles in his thigh exposed. They glisten in the flame light and the blood oozing from them paints a beautiful picture, running like torrents after a downpour or rivers after a flood.

“I don’t give a shit, you cunt.”

He’s still got some fight left, which will make this moreentertaining.

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