Page 92 of King

Slade inhaled sharply. His eyes darted to King, then back to Daniel. “You’re trying to permeate every tissue in his body.”

Daniel nodded. “As fast as we can. The constant flood of different blood sources will force his strength back, confuse the host, and make his body fight harder to adapt.”

Slade hesitated. “And how the hell do you know this?”

“I’m going to get a shirt made that says, ‘I don’t fucking know...I just know.’ And I’m going to wear it every day.” Daniel sighed, shaking his head.

“I think he’s saying he doesn’t know.” Joey frowned, looking at Slade.

“Yeah, I got that.” Slade gave Daniel a dark look just as the sound of motorcycles and car doors slammed outside.

King lay still, listening as the room moved around him. He hated the weakness, stillness, and helplessness he felt. It pissed him off. Every noise scraped against his nerves like a blade against bone. He could hear the shuffling of feet, the murmurs of Warriors discussing Amara and how her blood had saved him from a silver bullet, which was a definite death sentence to all vampires.

They had to get her back. Daniel’s presence neared, steady and unshakable.

“We’re starting. Three full tugs at their wrist, then let go,” his tone was calm, but beneath it, there was something else, a warning as Daniel instructed him. “This is going to be fast and furious, King. Don’t stop. Even if it feels like the power inside you is going to explode, fight through it. Hold it in. Not until Sloan is the last vein you drink from. That’s when you let go.”

The room was buzzing—excitement, awe, speculation—Warriors were still whispering about Amara and how her blood had saved him from a silver bullet. It was definitely a game-changer for them. A revelation, but all King could think about was her being taken...from him.

“Once he feeds from Sloan, all hell is going to break loose.” Daniel glanced around at all of them. “Be prepared because he will come off this table like a madman.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Sid frowned, looking from King to Daniel.

“Don’t ask,” Joey answered for Daniel.

“At least you get it.” Daniel chuckled. “Joey, it might be best if you wait in the other room.”

“What about you?” Slade’s voice cut through the tension as Joey left the room without complaint, questioning Daniel. “Aren’t you going to give blood?”

Daniel hesitated. The silence was thick and unnatural.

“Let’s just say,” Daniel finally said, his voice unreadable, “my blood may be a conflict of interest.”

A conflict of interest? Before King could focus on that cryptic-as-fuck statement, the first scent of blood hit his senses.

The reaction was immediate. His fangs ached. His muscles coiled. His instincts roared to life. The hunger crashed over him, violent and unrelenting. His throat burned. One of the reasons for his weakness was he hadn’t fed for a while. As blood hit his system and for the first time since the silver bullet tore through his flesh...King moved, and revenge became a reality.

Amara hit the ground hard,her breath ragged, her body aching from being yanked out of the car.

The air was thick with the stench of oil and damp earth. The ground beneath her feet was uneven. She barely had time to steady herself before she was shoved forward, stumbling toward a strange-looking man who stood waiting. He wore a cape and wide-brimmed hat.

He looked like something out of a vintage film, but nothing was nostalgic about the darkness curling around him like a living thing.

“Here you go.” The man who had shot King shoved her forward like a fucking package as if she wasn’t a person but some sick, wrapped-up prize. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.” He held out his hand, impatient, eager to be done. “Payday.”

“The Warrior is dead?” The man in the cape didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on Amara, dissecting her, like he was peeling away her skin to see what lay beneath. Then, finally, he turned away, looking at the man.

“Oh, he’s dead, alright. Silver bullet to the back,” the shooter bragged.

Amara snorted. Both men turned to her, suspicion slicing through the night like a blade.

“What?” The caped man’s voice was sharp, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Amara didn’t answer. She only smirked, daring them to believe their own bullshit.

“Ignore the bitch,” the shooter snapped, growing agitated. “Pay up so we can get the hell out of here. We did our job.”

“Your job was to kill the Warrior as well as bring her to me.” He took a slow step forward toward Amara. “I asked you a question.”

---