Page 7 of Siren's Kiss & Feral Beasts
Spiro lunges, blade high, and my beast surges forward with an instant half shift. My clawed feet drag across the sand as I sidestep his sloppy charge, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him spine-first into the ground. The knife slips from his hand and lands with a muted thud partially buried beneath sand, while the air cracks from the impact.
An audible gasp leaves the female rogue seconds after; I understand why.
A small mist of blood spreads in the wind as he chokes, his smaller hands trying to pry my claws from his skin—he fails. Instead, I dig them in a little deeper. The beast and I revel in the way his muscles tear as if my claws were a knife slicing through butter. Almost no force needed, and the sight of him squirming like a worm is amusing.
Tilting my head to the side, I grin. “You have a choice, Spiro. One I don’t give most people...”
“Get the fuck off!” he cries out, trying to use his feet to kick me away, and once again fails miserably.Pathetic.
“I’m truly disappointed, mutt.” Lowering my face to his, I unleash the tight grip on my alpha's aura, and Spiro cries out. Dominance radiates from me, a presence every shifter—member of my pack or rogue—acknowledges. It slithers around them, demands they yield to my command, and the physical manifestation of my bark is in the bending of spines and neck—it digs its claws into their instincts and tells them who I am.
What will happen if I’m defied...
This is the perfect example of such an act.
His challenge is met by force, and Spiro Marros finds himself pinned with my claws seconds from ripping his throat out.
“Who sent you, rogue? How did you get here?”
“I don’t?—”
“Liars never make it into the goddess' presence, Spiro. Tell me,” I growl out, voice deep, and the finality of the commandis unyielding. Defying me will hurt him and his wolf, the latter of which is trying hard to break free but can’t. Spiro tries to half-shift, but the glitch between animal skin and human skin distorts before leaving a panting mess beneath my grip.
Instead of defeat, he tries one last attempt to switch to fur.
His claws slip in and out, his wolf’s coat emerging then fading across trembling limbs. It’s a draining process to find the right balance between the two forms, and only those with the alpha’s power have been able to control it for the past century.
We have movement from the two male rogues, Kai. To your left, but outside the ring.Torren’s message comes in as I bare my elongated fangs, mouth open to tear off flesh.
All three on their knees. No one moves. No one leaves.
Yes, Alpha.
“Tell me who you’re working for, and I’ll make sure your next miserable attempt at a shift is your last.” At my command, his wolf cowers while the human clenches his jaw, fighting the need to bow his spine.
“You’re no real king, Kai Daire.”
Silence. His statement is met with complete and utter silence.
My answer to that? I let him go. My claws retract slowly, fingers flexing so the wounds widen and blood bubbles at the surface of each gouge before slipping down the side of his neck and onto the sand. The stains are vivid under the moon, the gentle rain only spreading the color until an imprint of his neck is left behind.
One that becomes visible to everyone once he stands afterIstep back a few feet.
Spiro’s hand cups his neck, checking the injuries while a smirk spreads across his face. “Did that sting, Your Majesty? The truth usually does.”
Gasps ripple at this man’s blind ignorance.
Because I’m not known for my patience or for showing leniency, and this mutt has tugged the wrong beast's tail. Wolves around the world heed my warning—know that both animal and man thirst for blood, and to some degree, so do these wolves here in attendance. Violence is in our blood, the same way a siren’s song will lead mortals to their death.
“You talk too fucking much for a dead wolf, Marros.”
“Fuck you!” Spiro stumbles forward, his arm cocked back, and throws a messy punch. It’s desperate and wild, and I catch his closed fist mid-air, twisting it hard enough that a pop rends the air. The dislocation of bone echoes, but not louder than the scream it rips from his throat.
Then I return the favor; the difference is that my attacks land in precise succession.
A knee to the ribs, chest, and then face. Blood flies like a fine mist, the drops sliding down my tattooed chest, while my claws rip into him withoutpause, and a chunk of his shoulder lands near his now kneeling companions. Someone gags, while a sorrowful cry rends the air.
Deafening, and yet, I can make out each pained noise leaving the rogue.
