Page 8 of Siren's Kiss & Feral Beasts
“Did that hurt?”
“No.” Not as cocky.
Laughter bubbles out of me, loud and boisterous, but it dies as fast as it arrives. “You think you’re owed something?”
“Fuck—” he pauses to spit out a fragment of tooth, stumbling; I drag him up by the collar before slamming him into the trunk of a thick palm ten feet away. Bark splinters. Prongs fall along with a few coconuts, adding insult to injury. The last one splits his forehead open.
“Watch your words.”
“When I’m king, I’ll make every last wolf here bow and kiss my feet.”
“What makes you think you’re better than every pack leader here who’s challenged me and lost?”
“Because you’ll answer the call and lose. No one’s infallible.”
“What call? Who the hell sent you?" Yet, as the last question slips through my gritted teeth, that scent floods my senses again. This time, it’s stronger. Fragile, yet the layered dominance of a sweet floral aroma makes my cock harden. My balls grow swollen and heavy.
A howl rips from my chest, full of something I’ve never felt before…
Longing.
Savage hunger.
I drop Spiro like garbage before landing another blow, this time a closed fist to his gut, and the asshole folds in half. The sound of angry waves crashing onto the shore catches my attention, and I once again give him my back. He’s no threat to me, but my wolf’s senses are drawn to the sea, and the pull is getting stronger by the second.
The animal rises to the surface, and through his eyes we watch the light storm intensify, and what minutes ago was a misting rain turns into thunder. Heavy drops begin to fall, too. Violent and fast; a demand we heed its warning.
Keep an eye on the shoreline.
Both my beta and gamma confirm they heard, and I sense their movements, the buzz of conversation with my guards to prepare. For what? I have no clue, but we’re not alone tonight.
“Make your move, or I’ll end this quickly.” The lax way I render the threat angers him, and Spiro tries to shift but fails. His wolf is cowering; the mangy thing recognizes the bigger predator, even if I haven’t fully unleashed my beast yet. I don’thave time for his nonsense, and those around us sense the change in me.
Power is dangerous when wielded by those who crave it. Because there’s a difference between earning it—studying those who came before you—and demanding it. I rule for my people, not for my pocket or the accolades. I kill for the same reasons.
To protect. To serve.
Spiro’s mind is clouded by a false sense of entitlement, and tonight it’s his downfall.
“Shadow born. Blood forged. Shadow born. Blood forged.”
The chants start again, and this time, they’re louder. Demand retribution.
This fuels him. His anger and hatred morph—control his reactions—and the idiot lunges for my throat, the knife in his hand again. “I’ll show you all!”
When he picked it up, I don’t know or care. The second he’s close, I shift. The blade grazes my shoulder mid-turn, but it’s too late for him. My jaw clamps down and shakes, teeth embedded deep in his ribs. Bones crack. A few pierce through the skin, flooding my mouth with blood. Each sanguine drop tastes as rancid as his soul, and I release him for a minute and just watch.
My ears pick up his wheeze.
His movements slow.
I give him the choice to bleed out silently and with some dignity, but he chooses to attack. Before he can grip the handle of his weapon, I jump on him. His back hits the wet sand, a pain-filled yowl filling the night as his wounds rip open further.
My wolf towers over the dying rogue.
It’s inevitable. His penance.
My claws dig into Spiro’s torso, the cut sharp and unforgiving—my weight crushing his chest, slowly adding pressure until my paws become wet and tinged with red. A low whine escapes his throat the deeper I dig. It’s a sign of submission, but the feralanger in his eyes turns to hope as he focuses on something—someone toward the shore.
