“Dead Butterflies”
“3rd Degree Burns”
(For Briella)
“Save Your Story”
“Stronger Than My Storm”
“Tattoos”
The monster in me is roaring.
Fuck, he is howling at the moon for her.
I’m not supposed to feel guilt.
It’s not in me—not like the others. I can feel hunger, rage, loyalty. But guilt? No. But I’m damn sure this is the closest I’ve ever come.
BecauseI’mthe one who whispered the filth in her ear like it was sacred. I’m the one who said,“I’m going to put a baby in you.”Over and over. Like a vow. Like a prayer.
I’m a fecking jackass.
All that filthy, sweet breeder talk, because Ididn’t know.I didn’t know about the wound.
Jude knew. He saw the scar that screams.
And when her voice cracks on,“They tied my tubes,”I want to set the world on fire with the heat of my rage. But I wouldn’t burn the world for my Lass.
I would keep it burning. Forever. All for her.
I’ve never felt this level of wrath. Not even when I gutted the gang who hurt Seth. Not even when I whipped the Director and carved his belly open before I set hell on fire itself.
This fury burns hotter.Purer.Like my soul’s been sharpened down to a blade just for her.
And fuck me, if there’s not a part of me—feral, male, unholy—that wants nothing more than to tear her from Raphael’s arms, lay her down, and fuck her slow, long, deep. Not to claim. Not to rut.
Tounmakethe pain.
To remind her of how only a Firecracker like her could take my goddamn prick and survive.
To make her forget she was ever broken.
But she belongs to our alpha right now. Every vein in my body throbs with the need to take her, but my time will come. I’ll wait. I’ll wait like a wolf in the snow, watching, panting, wanting.
For now, I justwatch her.
She’s a vision, nude and untamed, hair a storm of royal silk and snarl, sweat clinging to her perfect skin. Blood trickles from her palm, down her chest, along her pretty tits. Red and holy blood. My woman is wild and full of ruin. So much pain in them, it could drown us all…or ignite us.
She’s divine. Queen of the Damned. Queen of us Damned Freaks. She wears the fire of a fallen angel rising again with the old gods on her side.
She’s still talking, still bleeding truth like it costs her everything. Every word she speaks is a strip of flesh torn from her soul.
“They said a full year was necessary.” A flat tone. Like it’s just a fact. Like she isn’t about to carve me open.
“I was very obedient,” she goes on, lost, distant. “I gave very good head.”
My blood thunders in my ears. No. One ear. And one-half ear.
