Page 29 of Siege of Blood and Betrayal

And so, I did what I thought was right. I gathered the two sides of her robe and closed them to cover her up. I told her I loved her, but we were from different worlds. I was destined to be a vampire king, and she wasn’t of my world.

She had never lived outside the walls of our compound.

She had the chance to have a different life.

She could be free.

She could travel and explore her interests and maybe there was someone out there who was better suited for her than me. Someone who wouldn’t lose control and drain her life essence in a frenzy of hunger.

I thought I was sacrificing my happiness to give her the chance of finding her own. In reality, I was ashamed of who I was and afraid of ever seeing that shame reflected at me through her eyes.

I was a fucking coward.

As her body releases the last of its pain and tension, I ease back and watch her sleep. Bran transferred his duty to her and bound us—why?

Was Scottie right? Was Bran unsure of whom to trust given the betrayal within the compound? Or did he know that with him and my father dead, the two of us would need each other? That I will love her and protect her like no one else can. That I will raze the earth and bathe this city in blood before anyone ever hurt her again—including me.

Whatever his reasoning, Bran entrusted me with his daughter, and I will honor that trust from this day forward.

She might not know it yet or want it to be true, but before this is over, everyone will know—Scotland McCullough is mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Huntley

The RedRum is the kind of club where the pounding beat of emo-screamo music and the throaty cries of dark and dirty orgasms drain away the stresses of a bad night—at least, most nights.

Loud. Anonymous. It is the perfect place for someone in any of the ‘other’ races to dissolve and devolve after living in the fucked-up shadows of the Toronto streets.

The owner, J.D., and his Otherworld staff run the place with an iron fist of discretion, but also have their fingers on the pulse of the city.

If something is afoot, they either know about it or know who does. It is a one stop shop for anything and everything.

No rules.

“Where are we right now?” Jaxon takes in our surroundings, his head swiveling around like it’s mounted on a pike. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

I roll my eyes. “Stop staring. We’ve got enough trouble on our plates without you pissing off a Nephilim or a warlock.”

His gaze widens. “A Nephilim? You’re screwing with me, right?”

I scan the booths along the side wall and tilt my head. “You see the redhead with the tats, and the spank black wings? That’s the Celt. He’s one of the Watcher garrison—the dark angels that police demons feeding in the city.”

“Demon killers. Cool. I can get behind putting those fuckers down. And the blond guy beside him with the turquoise eyes?”

I turn my full attention on Jaxon so this might sink in. “That’s his ice demon husband. So, if the Celt heard you spout off just now about demons, we’d be getting our asses handed to us.”

Jaxon frowns and holds up a finger. “First off, I know how to apologize.”

“You won’t have to apologize if you say nothing.”

Another finger goes up. “Second, I think we could hold our own in a vampire versus dark angel brawl.”

I peg him with a droll glare. “No, we can’t. We’d be destroyed in minutes and then J.D. would kick us out and we wouldn’t get the answers we came for.”

He casts the couple in the booth a skeptical look. “They don’t look so tough.”

I fight the urge to pound my fist into his face and lean in. “The first thing Bran taught me when my training started was that there will always be fighters in the room who are bigger, badder, and stronger than you. Do you see the ink on the Celt?”

---