Page 52 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I wince, too—without proper aim, the hunter has only pissed off his quarry. Thomas rips the stake free and seizes the man by the front of his shirt. More than that, judging by the man’s wails and the burst of blood across his tunic, Thomas has clenched a fistful of his chest as well. With a grunt, he shoves the hunter through the window, shattering it entirely. Thomas is met with a brief sizzle of flesh from his exposure to the light, and he hurriedly scrambles out of range.

Two hands seize me by the shoulders and whirl me around. I begin to raise my weapons, but the man is prepared. He shoves my head against the wall, making stars explode across my vision.

Bile rises to my throat. The next thing I know, he’s atop me, knees pinning my arms, hands tightening around my throat. I struggle as best I can, but I can’t move—I can’t breathe. All I can see is his bared teeth, the vicious delight he has in being the one to end my life.

The edges of my vision begin to blur—and all I can think is that this man’s horrid, brutish face will be the last thing I see in this life.

Dante’s voice creeps in, and for a moment, I think I’m imagining it. “I’m afraid that throat is already spoken for.”

I draw in a painful, gasping breath as the man is suddenly yanked off my body. He struggles above me, rasping out pleadingly, before a sickening snap resonates and he goes limp. His body drops, removing the barrier between me and Dante.

Breathing heavily, Dante reaches a hand to help me up. I can see a teasing remark wavering at his lips—but I don’t even have time to grasp him before Thomas tackles him from the side in a blur.

In one brutal motion, Thomas has shoved him into the brightest part of the room—the rising sun’s beams have shifted into one corner. Dante tries to flee, but Thomas blocks his path—a fallen spear from the floor now grasped in place of his shortsword. He drives the spearhead through Dante’s shoulder, effectively nailing him to the wall. Dante’s ragged shout of pain curdles my blood.

“You know,” Thomas says, leaning more weight onto the spear. “Father insisted you be brought back alive. He’s obsessed with the fantasy of a reunion. But, accidents happen, don’t they? Your little slayer will make a good consolation prize. All I have to say is that she killed your pathetic ass. The favored son, slayed by that little slip of thing.”

Dante’s flesh hisses as the sun heightens with each passing heartbeat—and Thomas is too busy relishing his brother’s torment to notice me stagger to my feet. If there is one thing I can be certain about in the Order’s teachings, it’s vampiric arrogance.

I waver a step behind Thomas and raise my weapons. “I can think of nothing more pathetic,” I breathe before swinging the blades inward from above his shoulders.

His head thuds to the floor, his body following suit.

Dante hurriedly wrenches the spear free from his upper chest and bolts out of the sunlight, gasping raggedly on hands and knees. He looks up at me, eyes wide. The exposure to dawn’s light, faint as it was, did more damage than the holy water.

“Thank you,” he rasps, eyes falling shut as he bows his head.

My hands tremble around the handles of my blades. “If anyone is going to kill you,” I tell him, “it’ll be me.”

“Traitor!” The final living hunter makes a lunge for me. It’s the light-haired man I’d wounded earlier. With his good arm useless, he swings his axe wildly with his left one. His blade skims my shoulder, drawing blood—and I return the favor at once with a slice at his outer abdomen. Can’t he see I’m trying to spare him?

He cries out in pain, clutching the wound, but his vicious gaze remains fixed upon me. “You fucking freak! Look upon the bloodshed you have cursed us with! Damn you, bitch—you will burn for all eternity—”

Before he can make another swipe at me, Dante has seized him from behind. One hand wrapped around the hunter’s throat, Dante uses the other to squeeze the man’s wrist, making him relinquish his weapon. The man screams as the bones of his hand splitter and snap within Dante’s grip.

Lips twitching hungrily, Dante leans closer to his captive’s neck. His slow, measured inhale seems to fill the room. The desperation painting Dante’s expression is almost mesmerizing. I expect he’ll rip into the hunter at once—but to my surprise, Dante’s eyes slide over to me. He considers the raised blade in my hand, how I’m prepared to give the hunter a swift end.

“Please,” Dante says huskily. “May I?”

I lower my blade from sheer astonishment. Of all things, I never expected him to care what I thought. Perhaps he is attempting to stay true to his word about only drinking from me—even so, his plea for my permission renders me useless against denying him.

“You may,” I all but whisper.

“No!” the hunter chokes out, desperately fighting Dante’s grip. “Please, no! Don’t—” But Dante tightens his grip enough to silence him without snapping his neck entirely.

Dante eases forward slowly, as though relishing the man’s last moments of abject terror—and then bares his fangs and snaps forward.

I despise myself for the flustered prickle of gooseflesh along my arms as I witness Dante unleash himself in this way. His eyes purge of color into milky white. His face contorts in a way that is completely detached from the intimate swallows he’s taken of my blood. This is animalistic. I should turn away. I have no reason to see this. But I can’t. In a room piled with death, I cannot help but watch as he ushers in more of it.

I have seen this before. Seen poor souls drained on group assignments before they could be rescued. But this is different. Why is it different when it’s him?

No—there’s no way in hell you’re attracted to him right now.

Just before the man perishes, Dante stops drinking. He lets the body thud to the floor. He’s dripping with crimson, his white shirt soaked with it. Eyes still blanched, he is a harrowing and unholy sight as he slowly steps over the body to approach me. I lift one blade halfway, wondering if he’s too far gone—that he wants more and will have me, too.

But his eyes return to their usual stormy blue, and his sinister expression brightens as he comes back into himself and beholds me.

A fleshy sound permeates the air. The feeding is already running its course—his wounds are stitching up in seconds as he’s reinvigorated.