I hadn’t expected a Therianthrope to be so empathic. I’d learned that they were primal and gruff, both in and out of their beast forms.
“What are you?” It came out blunter than I’d planned, and he was silent for several beats before replying.
“I’m barghest.”
His breed of Therianthrope was rare, only a handful of packs left in the world due to their natural habitats being sold off and built on by large Haematophage corporations.
I’d already figured out that the silver-haired dude was a Haematophage of some kind, but if I was going to add him to my shit list, then I’d need a name. “What was the silver-haired asshole’s name?”
“Sterling Damascus,” he said flatly. “Lead Hunter for the Haematophage teams.”
He continued to speak, but the blood pounding in my ears drowned him out. I knew that name. Had dreamed of facing him one day.
“Onyx? Your pulse is racing.”
I swallowed past the dryness in my throat. “I’m fine.”
I was also a fabulous liar.
“No. You’re not. But I understand if you don’t wish to speak of it.”
“Thanks.” The arch grew closer as I wrangled my emotions back into the neat little boxes I’d created for them. “Why aren’t you bothered that I’m an Onyx?”
“Why should I be?”
“I don’t know. Most everybody else is.” Aside from Chester, of course. He was the first to not give a shit.
“I’m notmost everybody else,” Drayven said gruffly.
But Sterling Damascus was.
A dhampir from the most powerful vampire bloodline.
Practically a royal.
He was also the bastard who’d murdered my father.
CHAPTER 5
Built in the tenth year after The Overshadowing, the Border House is more than simply a residence for the messengers of Nightsbridge. Its secrets, however, are only disclosed to the guardians who man its many halls.
HISTORY OF NIGHTSBRIDGE
Ishut down the memories of my father and our final days together. Days filled with fear and sorrow until death came for him in the form of Sterling Damascus. He was one of many dhampirs—products of vampire and human procreation—bred to act as bodyguards and weapons for their pure-blood sires. But what set him apart was that his sire was a royal.
Sterling Damascus was the bastard prince and blood blade of the Damascus house.
I hadn’t seen his murderous face the night he killed my father, but I’d heard his name said over and over, and I’d vowed to one day end him. He’d always been out of my reach, elusive and hidden, until now.
Now he was here.
A Hunter.
Trapped.
I could get to him. Drive a stake through his blackened heart or cut off his lying head. I could finally have my revenge—if only the option hadn’t been taken from me by contracts of blood and oaths of duress.
But where there were pacts, there were loopholes, and in time I would find one. I’d get my vengeance because patience was a virtue that I’d had plenty of time to cultivate.
