Page 51 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“Change of plans, leech,” the foremost hunter says, eyes glinting behind his thick wooden stake.

“For your sake, you’d better be joking,” Thomas grits out, looking from face to face. He shifts his stance, lifting his chin. My heart sinks as the air charges with invisible energy, making hairs rise on my arms. He’s hypnotizing them.

“You will heed my every word. You will follow me—”

Thomas’ velveteen words cut off into an incoherent snarl as one of them lunges, hurling a flask of holy water across his face and chest. Flesh singes, wisps of acrid smoke lifting off his olive skin.

“Those tricks won’t work on us. Not now that we know exactly what the two of you are.”

Thomas’ fangs flash as he anchors himself into position—eyes darting between Dante and the others, effectively surrounded. “Filthy ingrates. I will leave your disemboweled, bloodless corpses for your widows to see.”

He moves with unfathomable speed. One moment, he’s standing before us—the next, his sword is stuck so deeply up the curly-haired hunter’s throat, the steel tip protrudes from his eye socket.

The remaining hunters ripple in horror—then surge into action. Chaos explodes as every wound muscle springs into motion, a clash of leather, flesh, and metal.

Thomas flings the body to the side, whirling toward Dante with hate in his gaze. Another hunter plunges a knife into Thomas’ stomach. He winces, but it doesn’t slow him—merely shoving the man with force enough to send him sprawling against the opposite wall.

I anchor my bare feet against the wood floor, glancing to the window as Thomas rapidly closes the distance to us. Dawn is about to break in mere minutes. If I can get Thomas outside, perhaps through a window, the sunlight will burn him alive.

I don’t have a chance to test this theory, as that spearwelding hunter lunges for me with a roar. I whirl to the left, crossing my daggers in a defensive X to block his staggering blow.

“Traitorous bitch,” he snarls.

My arms tremble as he presses his considerable weight down on me. I can’t hold this stance long—he knows it, too, his gaze turning wicked.

“Not too late to retreat,” I rasp out.

He almost laughs—and then I shove my weight forward, disengaging our blades with a cry of effort. Vampires, men—they’re all the same in assuming a smaller frame means I’m less dangerous than they are.

I drop low—the hunter doesn’t expect that. The moment he falters, I strike, lodging my thigh behind his knee like a clamp. Seizing the front of his reinforced doublet, I pull him forward as my leg kicks out and forces him to buckle. My legs lock around his waist, twisting as he falls.

I’m already on top by the time he pulls an enraged breath, and I slice the edge of my blade over his throat before another hateful word can surface. His spear thumps onto the floor as he clasps both hands over the line of gushing crimson. The hunter’s eyes bug in horror, suddenly pleading.

“Keep pressure on it,” I mutter, dismounting his prone form.

A deafening crash rises over the turmoil. I whirl to find the fourposter bedframe shattered and Dante plucking himself from the broken support beams—like he’d been shoved hard enough to maim a grown man. A human man, anyway. For vampires, this is merely an opening strike.

Thomas stalks toward him mercilessly, but they’re separated as more hunters swarm them. Two of them target Dante, seizing him while he’s still spitting out splinters. One of them attempts to pin his arms behind his back, successful just long enough for his partner to produce a flask—sloshing its contents over Dante’s freshly healed face and chest, drenching his shirt. His flesh singes anew, his face screwed up in agony.

“Enough,” he says through his teeth, “with the fucking holy water!”

He lunges free in one short, brutal movement, tackling the flask-wielding hunter against the curtained window. No need for the curved dagger still glinting in his grasp—Dante rips out the man’s throat with his teeth. A terrible fleshy tearing sound cuts across the room, blood gushing from the insidious wound. The body goes limp and drops to Dante’s feet like a felled tree.

The assailant who’d pinned his arms turns green in the face. With a frightened curse, he retreats—but Dante is faster, pivoting to seize the man’s shoulder and pull him onto his dagger. The hunter chokes out a rasping cry. My own eyes widen when I realize I can see Dante’s hand protruding right through the man’s back, still clutching his weapon dripping in gore.

Dante snarls with a triumphant flash of teeth as he wrenches his hand back out with a sickening squelch. The hunter’s guttural howl mingles with Thomas’ would-be attacker, whose left arm is now laying on the other side of the room. Another two bodies thump onto the floor in a mangled heap, and without the barest second of hesitation, Dante side-steps the bodies to launch himself at Thomas.

I stagger back involuntarily, base instincts screaming at me to stand clear as they grapple like fallen gods. I have little choice anyway, as I’m forced to parry against a light-haired hunter wielding an axe. My bare feet move fluidly on the floor, using circular movements of middle misura to keep out of his effective range. His weapon is heavy, leaving a gaping window for me to strike in close quarters after he’s swung. I target his dominant arm, thrusting my blade deep into his bicep. The hunter curses, staggering back, axe hitting the floor. He will survive the injury—probably.

Another deafening thud rattles the walls. I whirl in time to see Dante pinning his brother to the wall, striking his face, again and again. A chill snakes through me as I watch Dante’s face—his savagery runs even deeper than the confrontation last night. Every blow is ruthless—aimed to kill. I swear a cloud of desperate fear lines his features: the very real possibility that Thomas can overpower him and drag him back to Alessandro.

Though his face is blooded and swollen, Thomas gains traction. A well-placed kick sends Dante staggering backward. He tackles Dante against the window, glass cracking from their combined weight. The curtain rod shivers, coming loose with a metallic rattle. Their only shield from the dawn drops to the floor in a heap. Faint shafts of light spill into the room, forcing a pause to their fatal struggle.

Another two hunters, perhaps thinking they can use the dawn to their advantage, rush at the pair of vampires. They split—one goes for Dante, who has stepped back into the shadows beside the ruined bed. Dante’s dagger twirls deftly between his fingers. I have no doubt the hunter will soon be another corpse on the floor.

The one targeting Thomas takes a swing with a wooden stake. Although Thomas lurches out of the way in time to avoid a strike through the heart, the hunter does not relent, and the point drives into the center of Thomas’ thigh.

Cursing, Thomas staggers against the wall. “That fucking hurt!”