Freya and Daire are pulling on my arms like they truly are concerned that I am hurting myself.
At last, I still.
On my heart, I have tried so hard to hide the monster king from my new Omega. But my cold gaze settles on Atticus.
Fuck that.
Tonight, everybody dies.
I hurl myself into the air, closing my eyes and allowing the fury of The Power to flow through my blood.
Feral with anger and grief, I transform into a giant bat with wine-red eyes. My wings are nothing but shadows.
I am larger than the dragons.
I am the night.
I am vengeance.
Atticus rears back in shock but not fast enough. I latch my claws into his sides and hold him still, shaking his rider off him, before I sink my fangs into his neck and tear out his throat.
I thrill at the gush of warm, coppery blood.
I hurl Atticus down into the desert to become pale boned carrion.
Then I tear out another throat in a savage frenzy, again, and again,and again.
I feast on the dragons, who flee before me as terrified prey. I lose myself to the blood lust, swooping under the sharp stars, to capture each one.
I am cold death.
I am blood.
I am the monster these dragons should have feared provoking to come out to play.
I fade into smoke, appearing behind one dragon, before yanking her rider off and hurling him into the flames of the tomb. Then I pluck off the dragon’s wing, as if it’s as delicate as a moth’s, and send it to join its mate on the fiery pyre.
Another torn throat, ripped wing, and screaming rider.
I hiss and chatter.
Scent of burning flesh.
Taste of blood.
Dead, enemies all dead.
By the Shadow Gods, everybody is dead.
I circle the leveled, smoldering village, the victor of nothing but shadowed death.
I spy the only two people remaining alive, who are huddled beside the twin demonic lions.
My fated mates.
Members of my royal vampire nest.
Through my feral mind, the thought hits me hard:They’re scared of me.
