That I kept her safe.
The crowd starts to move again. Some of them leave, some just stand, stunned. Nobody says a word.
The guy is still breathing, but barely. A puddle has formed under his face, spreading slow and wide. The security guys keep their distance, like they’re afraid to get any on them.
I turn to Dahlia. “You okay?”
She wipes her cheek, smearing the blood in a line from ear to jaw. “Fine.”
I look at her, and for a second, I see it—the rush, the hunger, the way her body vibrates with the adrenaline. She’s not scared of me. She likes it. Maybe too much.
I want to drag her somewhere private and fuck her until she’s screaming.
The medics arrive and slowly approach the body on the ground. He groans as they shuffle him, his eyes glued shut, swollen and red.
I just stand there, a few steps from the one person I’d die to protect, feeling the blood dry on my hands, and watch as they finally carry the guy out on a stretcher.
I wipe the last of his blood on my jeans. It leaves brown stains, flaking as it dries, but I don’t care. I only care about her. The way she stands, not cowering but braced, legs apart, face angled up to dare me.
Her hair is loose now, black strands wild against her cheek. The blood spatter is a beautiful mist of red along the edge of her jaw. She should be scared. Instead, she watches me take a step closer, breath shallow, mouth open just a little.
I move slow, not because I want to scare her, but because I want every second to count. I stop close, crowding her space, my shadow covering her whole body. The smell is iron and girl and something sweet, like spring.
She meets my eyes, steady, her breath rising and falling rapidly.
I reach up and run my thumb along her cheekbone, smearing the blood in a streak from ear to mouth. I leave it there, red and raw, a mark that everyone will see. I want them to know she’s mine.
She shudders, but doesn’t pull away.
“You’re… you… you shouldn’t be doing this,” she stutters.
“I do what I want.”
I take her throat in my hand. My fingers curl around the column of her neck, just enough to feel the pulse hammering under the skin. I don’t squeeze. I just hold her, thumb pressing into the hollow at the base of her jaw.
“Say it,” I whisper.
She blinks, lashes dark and wet. “Say what?”
“You’re mine.”
She hesitates, then grins, sharp and feral. “In your dreams.”
“Every night,” I say, and push her head back until she’s looking up at me, neck exposed.
I lean in, mouth to her ear, and let her feel the heat of me, the hunger. “With or without the Hunt. With or without your father’s say-so. Anyone touches you, anyone even thinks about you, I’ll fucking kill them. You understand?”
She giggles, a sound that’s half relief, half defiance. “You think you’re the only one who wants a war?”
I press my lips to the side of her jaw, just above the blood smear, and bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. She gasps, arches into me.
I step back, let my hand trail down her neck, leaving five faint red streaks in a collar. Her skin glows under it.
The hallway is empty. Even the security has retreated. There’s only us, and the echo of what I did, and the stains on the floor.
I look at her, really look, and know that there’s no turning back.
“Go home,” I say. “Lock your door.”
