Page 8 of Little Mate

I am indestructible. No power nor human-made weapon will ever destroy what I’ve built.

Mate. Four letters that put together become my sole point of weakness; I’m blessed to not have found her. There is no room in my life for distractions. For frailty.

“Lilibeth, no!” her father screams, but it’s too late.

Before they realize what I’m doing, I push Christopher a few feet from the lineup and then I’m standing in front of her, hand around her throat. She gasps, choking as my fingers tighten—lift until those dirty feet float above the ground.

“Let go,” she cries out, her fingernails tearing as they fail to break my skin. The bloody tips slip, her body thrashing while I move her into position. Her back is now against my chest, and her sobs vibrate through me. “I’ll tell you. Just stop....no!”

Placing my lips against her ear, I exhale against her head. She smells of rosemary and rain, and the scent is wrong. Irritates my senses. “Watch them. You did this.”

The man standing behind her brother slides two fingernails across his neck from left to right, and blood pours from the wound. The cut is deep, and the man’s head falls back only staying upright because the vampire behind him holds him in place.

The next three die much the same way. Lilibeth’s screams rend the wide-open space, and I smirk against her temple. My army is hungry; they hiss and their muscles coil tight as the ground soaks up the blood beneath their feet. They won’t feed on them as this entire family is scum—tainted—and the sooner this ends, the sooner I’ll find Gabriella.

The next in line is her father.

Pompous. Arrogant. Pathetic.

His complexion is now pallid; the blood loss is quite significant. “Don’t tell him anything, Lilibeth. Don’t you...fuck!” Another gouge, this time to the remaining eye. It hangs from the socket, blood streaking his cheek.

“Your call, Lilibeth.” Body shuddering, she tries once again to fight my hold. The wind howls, angrier this time, yet it’s uncoordinated and does nothing but flutter around us and sweep my dark hair back. “Tell me where she is, and I’ll make it all go away.”

“He’s lying. Don’t,” her father begs, his hands now braced on the ground in front of him, fingers digging into the dirt. “We’re dead anyway. Don’t help him.”

“True, but...” Her mate whines then, the wheezing sound pulling her back to the present, and everything stills. He is her weakness. My ace up the proverbial sleeve. “I can help him, Lilibeth. Take away his pain.” Walking us forward, I turn her to face him while the bodies of her fallen coven brothers are tossed into a pile where they lay with eyes wide open and mouths agape in horror. “Do you want that?” I whisper. “Do you want it all to end? To meet him again?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me. It’s that simple.” We ignore the gurgling sound of her father’s struggles; I take advantage of how she can’t look away from the silly human struggling to live. Yet he’s not the only scent on her. Flicking my eyes to the guard holding the elder witch, I tilt my head in the direction of the castle. They’ll know where to take him.

I’ll deal with him privately.

Lilibeth remains inconsolable; her cries are soul-deep, but I feel her resolve seconds later. Take account of the breath where she loses her fight. Gives up. Swallowing back a sob, she exhales roughly and whispers the words I’ve been longing to hear: “New Forest in England.”

I let out a rough exhale against her temple before kissing the skin there. “Good girl.” Her neck is supple in my hold, the vein pulsing in time with her rapid breathing. Anxiety. There’s no fight in her when I tip her head to the side, nor when I breathe in deep, but the horrified scream following my fangs piercing deep—tearing her throat wide open as I feed—is a beautiful memory I’ll treasure.

She’s made this a little enjoyable. Her emotions are entertaining if nothing else.

Taking in the last deep pull, I press a tiny kiss to her empty vein before tossing her aside. I kept my promise—her mate’s already passed, and she’ll meet him if there is such a thing as an afterlife.

I walked her to death's door and over the threshold, however, what she finds on the other side isn’t my concern.

A frightening sound reaches my ears a few seconds after, and my head turns toward the source. Christopher is huddled against a tree, his bruised body shaking while the scent of piss emanates from him. Poor kid.

“Run, child. I’m allowing you to leave.”

“Please don’t kill—”

“Run, and don’t look back. You have sixty seconds before I change my mind.”

And while he takes off, stumbling and trampling a black rose bush, I scratch my jaw. Gabriella and her siblings took off for England. Smart little thing. She’s put enough space between us to make this chase fun.

The Moore family has lived—thrived—here in Italy, in Foresta di Ferràina to be precise, for over a century. Hours separate both kingdoms, never mixing while acknowledging—respecting—the treaty between both.

It’d be so easy to enslave them: our personal feeding horde.

And she’s the key. Mine.

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