We take her back.
And this time, no one walks away clean.
“Rory.” Seth steps in front of his partner, cutting through Rory’s fury. “Need to take the edge off?”
Rory snorts. “Thanks, Lad. But I’m saving all my edge for her. When the time comes…”
He doesn’t need to finish. When push comes to shove, when the beast is truly off his leash, Rory is more dangerous than I. Not as effective. Not as deadly. But dangerous, yes. Unpredictable and crazed as a firestorm.
Vincent is the volcano. The pressure building over time until it erupts with terrifying force. Relentless and destructive when pushed.
Seth is the lightning. Brilliant nd impossible to ignore. But targeted strikes. Fast and hard, driven by emotion and fire, lighting up the sky with fury when the people he loves are threatened.
Jude is the undertow. Unseen and patient, he pulls you under before you even realize you’re drowning. Calculated and lethal in silence.
And I? I am the eclipse. The sudden darkness falling like a divine omen, shifting the world into stillness and dread. A force that changes everything simply by showing up. The one who strangles the senses, filling every cold space in my being.
Driven to such a state, the hunter in me strikes, the predator targeting my wrath in a way I never have.
“Get on your knees,” I bark at my partner, blood raging too much.
His jaw turns to steel. He knows the implication in my voice, the abuse I want to inflict.
Vincent steps toward him, but his brutal eyes are directed at me. I know he fully intends to play the oldest card, but Jude holds up a hand, staying his partner.
Rory and Seth stiffen, observing the showdown, not interfering.
When I don’t back down, Jude turns his whole body toward mine. He stands taller, using every inch against me. His muscles flex as he sets his hands on his hips. Head high and chest swelling, he stares me down. “No, Raphael.”
The ice in me spreads. I don’t move. He doesn’t want to see me move.
The tension grows thicker, too thick. It suffocates me. The tension threatens to tear the bond of brotherhood. And I am the one feeding it.
Jude is trying tobleed it out, slowly, carefully, like poison from a wound.
I clench my hand into a fist at my side. Still not moving. Normally, Jude is my rook. My right hand. But now? We are both kings on the board.
His eyes sharpen to black blades, his neck muscles throbbing. “We’ve fucked in anger. We’ve fucked in madness. We’ve fucked in sin and suffering. But we haveneverfucked in hatred.”
“I cannot feel love,” I remind him.
Jude steps closer, lowering his head toward me. I still don’t flinch. Or blink. But those black blades throw down—like iron sharpening iron.
While his hands quiver, he is wise not to touch me.
“I will not let your pain turn you into the damnmonsterwe all destroyed together.”
Fuck.
He is stronger than I tonight. It’s irrefutable. He does not conquer my strength. Or smother it. This is Jude, the healer, personified.
The same healer who once moved through that fucked up orphan’s home, patching me up night after night, whispering reassurances while the world outside forgot we existed.
And on the night we came for him—freed him from that prison transport—he was too far gone. Too injured.
He needed blood.
And we are the same type.
