Page 147 of On Wings of Blood

My heart might have been black, my deeds as dark as night, but she was mine to protect, mine to keep safe, with everything I had to give.

She thought she was trapped? I was the one trapped. Trapped with this feeling I couldn’t get away from. The need to possess her. To dominate her until she accepted me.

I grabbed the man by his throat, yanking him up with ease. The highblood gasped, clawing at my arm in desperation. But my grip was like iron.

“She’s not yours,” I hissed. “I want to hear you say it.”

There was no mercy in my eyes as I looked at him, holding him up off the ground.

I slammed his head against the wall, hard enough to crack the plaster. A trail of blood was left behind.

“She’s...” The man choked. “She's yours.”

“Mine,” I growled, my voice thick with jealous rage. “You don't get to touch her–ever.”

The man’s voice came out as a rasp. I could hear the blood bubbling in his throat. “For–forgive me...”

But there would be no forgiveness. Not tonight. Not ever.

I tightened my grip, twisting the highblood’s neck with a sickening crack that reverberated through the room. The man went limp in my grasp.

I flung him to the floor, his body crumpling in a heap.

Breathing hard, I turned towards Pendragon.

She stood there, frozen, clutching her cloak to her chest as if trying to hide her torn dress. Her eyes were wide with shock.

Our gazes locked.

I reached for her arm, expecting her to slap my hand away. But to my surprise, she let me.

I led her towards the door.

“Wait,” she said, her voice hoarse. She pointed down at the carpet.

Neville. The fluffin lay on the gaudy red carpet. His little chest was rising and falling slowly.

“Fuck,” I growled. “He did that?”

She nodded tightly.

I suddenly longed to kill the man all over again.

I let go of her arm and scooped the little pup up into my arms.

“Come on,” I said, hoping she’d comply for once in her stubborn life. “I’m taking you and Neville back.”

CHAPTER 33 - MEDRA

I was following a vampire.

Because I had no other choice, I told myself. The fluffin–whose name, apparently, was Neville, of all the ridiculous names–had been my way back home. At least Blake knew where we were going.

Still, I waited until he’d led us into the tunnel beneath The Wandering Page before I spoke up.

“What the fuck was that back there?”

He’d grabbed a lamp from off the shelf in the storeroom. Now he carried it in one hand and the limp fluffin in his other.

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