I gasped, my vision tilting.
“I’m—sorry—master,” I managed to choke out, my hands clawing at his wrist, trying to loosen his unrelenting grip.
His nostrils flared, his eyes flashing crimson. “You’ve failed me.”
Then, without warning, he threw me backward.
I crashed onto the couch beside his son, my right side fully exposed—the side where his sacred dagger was strapped to my waist.
Shit.
I righted myself instantly, shifting my body just enough to conceal the hilt, forcing my hands to remain steady despite the roaring panic in my chest.
Balthazar took a menacing step forward.
“You could have saved me,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
A flicker of genuine confusion cut through my panic.
“Saved you?” I rasped, rubbing at my aching neck. “Saved you from what?”
Balthazar didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned, his focus shifting to the young man still cowering on the couch.
“How did you get here, Tristan?”
His voice was calm now, far more terrifying than his rage.
Tristan flinched, curling his arms and knees inward as if he could shrink into himself.
“I—I came with Roman Alexander,” Tristan stammered.
Silence slammed into the room, heavy and unnatural, thick as smoke before an explosion.
“Roman?” The demon’s voice was low, almost disbelieving, quiet before the storm. “He lives?”
His hand shot out, snatching a porcelain vase from the table beside the sofa?—
And hurling it across the room.
The vase exploded against the wall, shards flying like tiny daggers.
Some landed in my hair, but I didn’t dare move.
Tristan flinched, his body curling inward, but he forced himself to speak.
“Yes, Dad. Alexander lives.” His voice wavered, but bitterness edged in as he pressed on. “He grabbed me in a 21st-century bar, beat the shit out of me based on what some old hag told him—” He shot me a resentful glare. “—then forced me to time travel with him. We ended up here, at some count’s home. Count Montego.”
Balthazar stilled.
For a brief moment, his expression was unreadable.
Then—
Rage detonated.
“That’s impossible!” he bellowed.
