Page 65 of Fangs

“I did not chase them.” A dark chuckle slips free. “A few rats ran.”

My mind stutters, trying to process the words. “You plucked out their eyes and let them stumble out blind?”

“Some of them. Most of them are ash.” He shrugs, the motion fluid and lethal. “The ones who ran were not worth the effort.”

I should be horrified. Instead, a laugh bubbles up from my chest, slightly hysterical. That is… that is terrible. The thought forms even as the laugh keeps coming. “That is… that is terrible.”

“You are smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He grins, sharp and wicked. “You are smiling, and it is beautiful.”

I shake my head, still laughing.

“You are impossible.”

“You are radiant.”

The words sober me. Reality cuts back in. Cain. His blood running inside my veins.

“Blake—the Order. Fifty-two of them still on the road, heading for Bloodgrove—”

He laughs. Not a gentle sound. The laugh of a predator who knows he is the apex.

“Let them come.” His eyes gleam like coals. “Before the curse broke they might have been a threat. Now?” He shakes his head, cruel amusement curving his mouth. “I am ready for war.”

He steps closer. Even with me on the stage he is taller, the difference in power a physical weight.

His eyes beam like flames. “The curse kept us from fully mating. From becoming one. But now—” He pauses, his eyes searching mine. “Now we can.”

In the space between one heartbeat and the next he is at the base of the stage. He stands directly in front of the dais, close enough that the heat of him brushes my skin.

“Or you can choose.”

The words land like a blade.

“You’re free to go, Lucille. I will give you gold, jewelry, every wealth your heart desires. You can go back to your father. Live your life away from the darkness that is me.”

He extends one gloved hand. Black leather gleams in the candlelight.

“Take my hand, my love, and accept being the shadow’s bride.”

My breath catches. He looks handsomely striking.

“Or take the carriage waiting outside and go wherever you wish.”

He is not human. Not even close. The sheer density of him, the way the air bends around his presence, the way every instinct I possess screams both run and stay. Goosebumps race down my arms, my spine, the insides of my thighs. Magnetic. Inevitable.

I step forward. Heels click against the stage. The shadow-gown swirls around my legs like liquid night. I reach for his hand.

When our fingers touch, he is warm.

His grip closes around mine. Heat radiates through the leather. Not a ghost anymore. Just warmth and strength and the impossible reality of his presence.

“You are real,” I breathe.

“I’m real.” His thumb strokes my knuckles, slow and deliberate. “I am here. And I am never leaving again.”