“See, you made a mistake. There’s no way this group of bros would let you in their group, wearing thatgouzasui.” I point at the mid-range time piece wrapped around his wrist.
Glasses Guy narrows his eyes at me, his loose, slouchy posture suddenly straightening.
“Tell me Alan, how much did he pay you to fuck with the bartender?” I ask without taking my eyes off the real threat.
“Fifty bucks,” Alan says in an almost robotic voice.
My disgust forces me to double-take at the haircut. “You probably don’t get up in the morning for less than. . .” I roll my fingers expectantly.
“A two-million-dollar deal,” he finishes my prompt.
My lip curls up in a sneer. “So you did it for the sport of it, did you?” I’ll deal with this son of a bitch, but not yet.
I turn my attention back to Glasses Guy, who's now watching me with a wary, calculating gaze. “So, who sent you? My father? Or maybe some other disgruntled court member who doesn’t want a beater for their princess?”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he schools his features into a mask of indifference. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
I chuckle darkly. “Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you. I saw the way you were watching her, the way your hand kept twitching towards your jacket. You're here to kill her, aren't you?” I swipe my thumb across my lower lip. “What was the plan? A little reconnaissance? Wait until after she got off her shift at the bar then strike? Or was big meaty and clumsy over here a distraction so you could slip poison in her water glass behind the bar?”
His jaw clenches, and I know I've hit the mark.
“Ah, but you didn’t count on me being there, did you?”
In a blur of motion, he lunges at me, fangs bared. He's fast, skilled, a trained assassin. But I'm faster.
I hear gasps of fear as the rest of the men scram, leaving Alan behind.
We clash in a flurry of blows, his strength nearly matching mine. But he doesn't know pain like I do. I took that pain and turned it into discipline, into muscle—into hours, days, months, years of sweat and movement.
Glasses throws a precise punch, but I easily duck and grab his arm. With a quick twist, I pin him against the wall, my hand around his throat. “You picked the wrong girl to mess with,” I growl. “And the wrong Charming to cross.”
None of this was necessary—like toying with a plaything before crushing it under my boot. But it was my way. I wanted him to know I could best him on my own.
But I had to finish this like a Charming.
I unleash my power, flooding his mind with a command. “You will drink your own blood until there is nothing left.”
The assassin’s eyes widen in horror as he raises his hand to his mouth, fangs sinking deep into his wrist. A muffled scream rips from his throat as he begins to drink.
It’s the worst agony a vampire can endure.
I would know.
And I’ve doomed him to suffer that torment until he meets his end.
I leave him to his fate, turning back to Hair Cut.
“It’s time to confess your sins. Alan, was it? Have you assaulted others before? Ladies or otherwise?”
With a dumb nod of his head, he confirms what I guessed.
“Despite our chat, I don’t feel you’ve learned your lesson.”
I sink my power in deeper.
The King is known to wield the power of thrall. The only vampire able to control the will of others.
What the world doesn’t know is it’s a family trait. And I absolutely fucking hate it. But right now, the ability is to my benefit.
