Page 51 of Fangs

Francis spits the next words like venom. “They are working with the Dark One. The Order believe he has somehow freed himself from the curse, regained his body, and killed Thomas.”

Cain’s brow furrows. “Impossible. He can’t leave the tomb. He is trapped in the portrait. Has been for two centuries.”

Let them believe, a dark, predatory amusement coils deep in my chest.

“Thomas was always difficult,” Cain adds, his tone dripping with quiet disdain. “Ever since he bit that girl on the roof, he knew he broke the rules. Perhaps he bolted.”

Francis whirls on him. “That is what I said. Thomas is playing tricks.” He rakes a trembling hand through his hair. “But now the Order is coming. Fifty-two of them. They will poke their snouts into my business. As if I—” He arrests himself, smoothing his coat. “As if we are not capable of handling our own problems.”

Cain says nothing. His face remains smooth as polished glass.

“The Order arrives hungry,” Francis continues, pacing a furious loop. “They will expect a feast. Proper hospitality. We need to give them our finest pets.”

A long, suffocating pause stretches between them. Then Cain speaks, his voice dropping into a low, measured register. “It is staggering hypocrisy that the Order can feast on them under the cover of law, while we are shackled by their rules, forbidden from taking pleasure in, fuck or feeding from our own pets.”

Francis shakes his head, murmuring quiet agreement.

“What if we anticipate the auction? Sell the girls now, so we don’t leave the best for them?”

Francis halts mid-stride. “Sell them early?”

“The mercenaries have been collecting debt-ridden souls for months. We have plenty of lesser quality stock to serve them.” Cain leans forward, his obsidian eyes gleaming. “Let the Order take the manor. Let them fight the ghosts, the Resistance, whatever remains. We take a holiday.”

“A holiday?”

“New Orleans, perhaps.” Cain’s smile is thin, predatory. “We just have to convince Peter.”

A slow grin spreads across Francis’s face. “Peter won’t miss a good bloodlust vacation. Not like the old times.”

They laugh together, the sound harsh and ugly, echoing against the stone walls.

I dissolve entirely into the black velvet of the rafters, my mind churns with lethal promises as I count the ways I will unmake them

—

The towering mahogany bookshelves materialize out of the twilight around me, packed with ancient tomes and forgotten lore, their leather spines breathing centuries of dust. Lucille sits curled in the deep maw of an oversized wingback chair, her knees tucked beneath her skirts, an open text balanced across her lap. As I detach myself from the writhing dark of the corner, her gaze snaps upward.

A brilliant, genuine smile breaks across her features—warm, radiant, and devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

“Blake.”

I cross the chamber in three predatory strides. My large hands clamp onto her narrow waist, wrenching her effortlessly out of the chair and pressing her hard against my solid, freezing chest. I need the friction. I need to anchor myself to her pulse, to reassure every dead cell in my body that she is mine alone. “I need to tell you something.”

Her palms press flat against my shirtfront, the radiant heat of her mortal blood seeping through the fabric like sunlight through storm clouds.

She is too soft for the slaughter coming our way, my mind hisses, a dark, possessive panic curling sharp claws around my throat. If they touch a hair on her head, I will butcher every last commander in the Order.

The ambient shadows writhe across the floorboards, reacting violently to the spikes of my agitation.

“Cain knows about your blood,” I say, my voice dropping into a harsh, grated whisper. “He has been obsessing over it. Licking the sheets of your bed like a rabid, pathetic dog.”

All the color drains instantly from her face, leaving her pale as porcelain.

I tear away, pacing a furious path before her, my fingers clenching and unclenching into tight fists. “The Order is mobilizing. Fifty-two of the most lethal vampires in existence are descending upon this house. They are coming to contain me. They already know I have reclaimed my flesh.” I halt mid-stride, spinning to tower over her. “It will take them no time at all to connect the dots. To figure out how I broke the curse. To trace it back to you.”

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing convulsively.

I step into her space, my long fingers framing her jaw, cupping her face with a controlled pressure that borders on a bruise.