Then Dimitri’s hand closed around Isaac’s wrist, yanking him forward with enough force to make his shoulder scream in protest. Isaac’s free hand came up, nails raking down Dimitri’s face, going for his eyes because his life had taught him to survive, to inflict as much damage as possible.
The demon jerked his head back, and Isaac’s nails caught the edge of his jaw instead, drawing more blood but not enough to drive the demon back. Dimitri’s other hand grabbed Isaac’s hair, fingers twisting in the strands and pulling hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“You’re going to learn that fighting is useless.” Dimitri’s voice had gone flat, empty of the mocking amusement that had colored it before. Now he just sounded annoyed, like hurting Isaac no longer entertained him.
The front door exploded inward.
Wood and metal flew across the room in a spray of splinters and bent hinges. Whichello stood in the doorway, his eyes completely black.
Marcus came in behind him, moving immediately toward the two demons who’d been flanking Dimitri. They met him halfway, and the sound of impact echoed through the small house, loud enough to make Isaac’s ears ring. Dimitri’s grip on Isaac’s hair vanished, making Isaac stumble backward until his legs hit the couch. He went down hard, his tailbone connecting with the cushions while his eyes stayed locked on Whichello.
The demon moved like something that had forgotten how to be human. Each step toward Dimitri carried the weight of centuries, boots connecting with the floor in a rhythm that made Isaac think of funeral marches. Frost spread from each footfall, creeping across the hardwood in patterns resembling reaching fingers.
Dimitri backed up, his hands raised in a gesture that might have been placating if his expression hadn’t held that same cold amusement. “Whichello. I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“You touched him.” Whichello’s voice echoed with a power built for destruction. “After I warned you. After I told you what would happen.”
“Did you?” Dimitri moved sideways, putting the overturned coffee table between them. Glass crunched under his boots from the broken lamp. “Because I seem to recall you locking me in a cell instead of actually following through on your threat. Empty promises from a demon who’s gone soft.”
Isaac pushed himself up from the couch, his legs wobbly. Behind him, Marcus slammed one of the demons into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall. The sound of breaking bone followed, the hard snap making the demon scream.
Whichello didn’t look at the fight happening behind him. His attention stayed fixed on Dimitri with the kind of focus that said nothing else in the world existed. “You escaped my dungeon. Stole a phone. Lured Isaac here with malicious intent.” Each word came out controlled and dangerous. “Tell me why I shouldn’t end you where you stand.”
“Because you want to hear me beg first.” Dimitri’s smile widened. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your pride. I challenged your authority by touching something you claimed as yours, and now you need to make an example of me.”
“No.” Whichello took another step, and the temperature dropped so fast Isaac began shivering. “I’m going to kill you because you hurt my mate. The rest is just context.”
Dimitri’s expression shifted then, the amusement draining away to reveal something uglier underneath. Desperation, maybe. Or the kind of rage that came from knowing you’d lost before the fight even started.
“Your mate.” Dimitri’s laugh came out hysterical. Maybe he was finally losing his mind. “The great Whichello, terror of realms, brought low by a red panda. Do you know what the others say about you now? How they laugh about the mighty demon reduced to playing house with his pet?”
“I’m nobody’s pet!” Isaac went for Dimitri, but Whichello pulled him back, setting Isaac aside before turning his attention back to the demon.
“Next time I won’t save you.” Whichello’s hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that drew Isaac’s gaze. Frost had started creeping up the demon’s forearms, white and crystalline against his skin. “Then again, you put your hands on my mate.”
“So kill me then.” Dimitri spread his arms wide, the gesture theatrical and mocking. “Go ahead. Prove you’re still the monster everyone fears. Freeze me solid and shatter me into pieces. Make it artistic. Make it memorable.”
Whichello moved.
One second he stood across the room, the next his hand had closed around Dimitri’s throat. Isaac watched, eyes wide. Dimitri’s feet left the floor, boots kicking uselessly as Whichello lifted him with one hand.
“You think I need to prove anything?” Whichello’s voice was quiet enough that Isaac had to strain to hear it over the sounds of Marcus still fighting behind them. “You think your opinion matters enough to influence my actions?”
Dimitri clawed at Whichello’s wrist, nails scraping against skin that had started to frost over. His mouth opened, trying to form words, but only strangled sounds came out. His face was turning red then purple, veins standing out against his temples.
Isaac should feel something. Horror, maybe. Satisfaction. Relief that Dimitri couldn’t hurt him anymore. But all he felt was numb, like his emotions had packed up and left without a forwarding address.
“You want to know what the others say?” Whichello tilted his head, and the movement looked wrong, too bird-like for something in a humanoid body. “They say I’m ruthless. That I eliminate threats without hesitation. That I’ve survived fourteen hundred years because I’m willing to get my hands bloody.” His grip tightened, and Dimitri’s struggles grew weaker. “They would be correct.”
Frost spread from Whichello’s hand, racing up Dimitri’s throat in delicate patterns that looked almost beautiful. Like lace made of ice, intricate and deadly. Dimitri’s eyes went wide, panic finally breaking through the arrogance that had armored him.
“I am the monster everyone fears,” Whichello continued, his tone steady and smooth, like the drip of poison sliding off the edge of a knife. “You touched my mate. Now you die.”
The ice reached Dimitri’s jaw, spreading across his face in a mask that glittered in the dim light filtering through the windows. His mouth opened wider, trying to scream, but the sound came out muffled. Frost crept into his mouth, coating his tongue and teeth.
Isaac’s stomach turned over, bile rising in his throat. He’d seen death before. Had caused it, even, when his father's body had hit the floor and stopped moving. But this felt different. Slower. More purposeful. Whichello wasn’t just killing Dimitri. He was making a statement written in ice and suffering.
“Stop.” The word came out of Isaac’s mouth before he’d decided to speak. “Whichello, stop.”
