His face contorts with rage, his eyes bulging as he lets out a roar of fury. It's like looking into the face of a rabid dog, all frothing madness and primal fury.
He charges at me, his sword raised high above his head, ready to cleave me in two. But I'm not about to let that happen. I've been through too much, fought too hard, to let some scurvy-ridden bastard take me out now.
I can feel the familiar heat building in my hands—that inner fire—always simmering beneath the surface. It's a part of me, as much as my snark and attitude. And right now, I'm tired, pissed off, and in desperate need of a bathroom break.
With a flick of my wrists, my daggers burst into flames, the blades erupting with a brilliant, white-hot glow that illuminates the dank, shadowy bowels of the ship. It's like I'm holding two miniature suns in my hands, the heat so intense I can feel it on my face.
Holy shit. Okay, that's new.
I stare at my flaming daggers in shock, my mind struggling to process what I see. I've always known that my angelic heritage gave me specific abilities. But this? This is something else entirely.
The bastard's ugly face hardens. "Witch!" He lets out another roar, tinged with a hint of desperation, and lunges at me with all his might. But I'm ready for him.
Our blades collide in a cacophony of metal and magic, my flaming daggers hissing and spitting against the cold steel of his sword. The clash sends sparks flying, each a miniature star born and dying instantly. The heat is oppressive, warping the air around us into shimmering waves, but I remain laser-focused, my senses heightened by the rush of battle.
We weave a deadly dance, our weapons flashing in the dim light like lethal lightning. The pirate moves with a fluid grace that speaks of years of combat, but against the inferno raging through my veins, his skill is a candle before a wildfire.
With a primal roar that tears from my throat, I channel every ounce of my angelic fury into one devastating strike. My blazing daggers cleave through his sword as if it were nothing more than parchment, the metal liquefying and then shattering in a shower of molten droplets and glittering shards.
The pirate staggers backward, his face a mask of terror and disbelief. The acrid stench of fear mingles with the heavy smoke and sweat. His eyes, wide with horror, reflect the dancing flames of my daggers as realization dawns—he's staring death in the face.
I lunge forward, my body moving with inhuman speed. My daggers trace twin arcs of searing light through the air, leaving fire trails in their wake. They find their mark with brutal precision, sinking deep into flesh and bone.
The pirate's scream of agony is cut brutally short, replaced by the sickening sizzle of burning flesh. His body crumples to the ground, smoke rising from the charred ruin of his chest. The smell of cooked meat and scorched hair fills the air, a grim testament to the devastating power of angelic fire.
The other pirates watch in horror as their comrade falls. I stand amidst the carnage; my daggers still wreathed in flames. "Who's next?" I taunt, my voice ragged as I pant, chest heaving. "Come on, boys. Let's dance."
The pirates hesitate, their eyes darting between me and their fallen friend, his body still smoking on the floor. I can see the fear etched into their faces, the dawning realization that they've stepped into a world of shit they never could have imagined. They know they're outmatched and facing something far beyond their meager comprehension.
Before they can move, a familiar voice cuts through the tension, "You're all fucked."
The pirates whirl around, their faces draining of color as they face the massive Viking vampire. He stands there like an avenging angel, his azure eyes blazing with fury, his fangs bared in a snarl that promises nothing but pain and death.
I grin, feeling relief like a cool breeze on a hot day. "Looks like the cavalry is here, boys," I quip. "And trust me, he's not nearly as nice as I am."
The pirates try to scatter like rats fleeing a sinking ship, their courage failing in the face of Rhyland's wrath. But there's nowhere for them to run, nowhere to hide. Rhyland is on them in a blur of motion, his body moving with a speed and grace that defies belief.
I watch in morbid fascination as he tears through them. His fangs sink into flesh, tearing out throats with a savage efficiency that borders on artistry. Blood splatters the walls and floor, painting the ship's bowels in a macabre canvas of crimson and gore. The screams of the dying fill the air, a symphony of agony and despair that echoes through the confined space like a twisted lullaby.
I know I should be recoiling in horror, averting my eyes from the brutal spectacle unfolding before me. But I'm transfixed, my gaze locked on Rhyland as he tears through our enemies like a hurricane of flesh and fang. There's a savage beauty to his movements, a deadly grace that's as mesmerizing as terrifying.
Rhyland is a force of nature unleashed, a Viking god. His eyes blaze with an unholy fire, his muscles rippling beneath blood-spattered skin as he deals out death with terrifying efficiency. It's violence in its purest form, unadulterated and unrestrained.
Goddamn, I'm utterly captivated.
Watching Rhyland like this and seeing the full extent of his capabilities doesn't scare me. It thrills me to my very core.
I'm witnessing the unleashing of a primal force, a glimpse into the heart of the predator that lurks beneath Rhyland's civilized exterior. And God help me, but I've never been more turned on in my life.
In a matter of moments, it's over. The pirates lie crumpled at Rhyland's feet, their bodies broken and lifeless. Blood drips from his mouth, staining his beard and running down his chin. He looks like a god of war, a primal deity of blood and death.
I stare at him, my breathing still in ragged gasps, my heart pounding. Rhyland stares back at me, his eyes filled with a swirling maelstrom of emotions. There's fury there, a white-hot rage that could consume the world. But there's also love, a fierce, protective devotion that takes my breath away.
I know I've pissed him off, that he's furious with me for putting myself in danger. But looking at him now, seeing how he's torn through our enemies like they were nothing more than paper dolls, I can't bring myself to care.
"What the fuck were you thinking, Dani?" Rhyland growls. "You could have been killed."
I shrug, "But I wasn't," my tone sassy and unapologetic. "And besides, I had it under control."
