Page 38

The bar erupts into chaos. Someone fires a shot that hits me in the shoulder, the impact barely registering.

I grab the shooter by his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat.

My fangs sink in deep, tearing through flesh and muscle until I hit the spine.

I wrench my head to the side, ripping away a chunk of his neck. He falls, gurgling on his own blood.

A woman tries to run for the door, but I intercept her, gripping her by the waist and sinking my fangs into her jugular. Her blood flows sweeter than the men’s, tainted with the fruity cocktail she was drinking. I drain her dry, letting her body crumple to the floor.

I move through the bar like a whirlwind of death, tearing limbs from bodies, ripping throats out, feeding on the blood that sprays from severed arteries. Bullets hit me—stomach, chest, leg—but I barely feel them, my body already pushing the metal out, healing around the wounds.

A man breaks a chair and drives one of the legs through my stomach.

I look down at the wood protruding from my body, then back at him, grinning through bloodstained teeth.

I grip the makeshift stake and pull it out, feeling my flesh knit back together.

Then I grab him by the hair and the chin and twist in opposite directions, tearing his head clean off his shoulders.

Blood fountains from the stump of his neck as his body collapses, twitching.

I throw the head over the bar, where it lands with a wet thunk. Two women who were hiding there scream and make a break for the door, but I let them go. Let them spread the word. Let them tell everyone what happens when you threaten what’s mine.

By the time I’m finished, the bar looks like a slaughterhouse.

Bodies lie strewn across the floor, blood soaking into the cheap carpet and pooling on the wooden floorboards.

The mirror behind the bar is shattered, bottles broken, tables overturned.

The air is thick with the scent of blood, fear, and death.

I’ve killed at least twenty of them—men and women who thought it was sport to hunt supernaturals, who celebrated the deaths of Carla’s children, who would have hurt her again given the chance.

The burning thirst that drove me here has finally eased, sated by the blood of my enemies. I make my way to the abandoned bar, pick up a glass of whiskey left behind in the chaos, and take a sip. The alcohol burns warmly as it slides down my throat, washing away the taste of blood.

A few minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional death rattle from the not-quite-dead. Then the door opens, and Damon and Kade step in.

Damon is dressed in one of his immaculate suits, not a hair out of place. He steps carefully over a pool of blood, his expression flickering as he accidentally steps on a severed ear, ruining his expensive leather shoes.

Kade, dressed in her sheriff’s uniform—fitted t-shirt, jeans, boots, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid—surveys the scene with an appreciative eye.

“What have you done, Amari?” Damon asks, adjusting his suit as he carefully steps forward. Then he stops, his eyes widening slightly as he catches the sound—the steady thump of my heartbeat.

Realization dawns on his face, and he looks to Kade, who just shrugs.

“I don’t see the problem here,” she says, prodding a body with her boot. “These radicals have been giving us shit for months. It’s time we stepped up and did something about it. Show the humans we aren’t to be fucked with.”

Damon sighs, his expression caught between agreement and disapproval.

“While I somewhat agree with the sentiment, this wasn’t the way.

Scaring humans even more is only going to escalate things.

They’re already using the media to spread fear and misinformation—this will only add fuel to the fire. ” He gestures at the mess around us.

Kade’s eyes flick to me, then to where my heart beats steady and strong. “So, who’s the lucky woman?”

Before I can answer, we hear the heavy thump of Tofi’s legs on the roof. She leaps down, landing with surprising grace considering her size, and uses one leg to pull open the door. She enters cautiously, surveying the scene of carnage.

I grin at her, gesturing around the room. “Go ahead. There’s plenty to eat.”

Tofi doesn’t hesitate. She scuttles over to one of the bodies, impales it with her fangs, and begins dragging it out the door. Damon and Kade watch, eyes wide, then turn back to me.

Kade grins. “You bagged the spider queen.”

I give her a smug look, unable to hide my satisfaction. Mine. Carla is mine.

Damon groans and pulls his coin from his pocket, flipping it absently. “I suspected he was fated to Carla based on his connection to his little friend.”

“What are you talking about? How is that even possible? Carla doesn’t have the fated scent,” Kade says, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“The morning after Granada fell, Amari discovered an oversized spider,” Damon says, his voice calm and measured.

“He called it ‘little friend,’ and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

It was one of Carla’s offspring, lost and strayed from the egg sac.

” He steps carefully around the remnants of flesh on the floor.

“Carla’s fate was always sealed, just as I suspected.

Somehow, her children have been masking the scent—just as they’ve been concealing her identity as a Blackwood witch. ”

Kade’s grin widens. “Ah, how sweet. Fate’s been preparing you for your woman.”

Damon raises an eyebrow at me. “What does this have to do with killing all these radical humans and making such a mess of things?”

I point at the photographs on the wall, and Damon’s expression darkens as he notices them—the trophy shots of humans with Carla’s dead children.

“They probably took pieces of their body parts to keep as souvenirs,” I say, my voice hardening as memories flood back. “The same way they did with Nat Turner.”

I remember that day in 1831, watching from the shadows as they butchered him.

After they hanged him, they didn’t stop there.

They flayed him, skinning him like an animal.

They cut off his head and hands. Pieces of his body were distributed as souvenirs—skin made into purses, bones fashioned into knives.

White families passed these “relics” down through generations, proud tokens of a Black man’s execution.

“I was there,” I tell them, my voice low with barely contained rage.

“I watched as they took turns cutting pieces from his corpse. Skin. Flesh. Organs. They made wallets and lamp shades from his skin. They kept his fingers in jars of vinegar to preserve them. They passed these ‘trophies’ down to their children and grandchildren. Proud mementos of a slave rebellion crushed.”

I gesture at the photos on the wall. “This is the same thing. The same hatred, the same dehumanization, the same trophy-taking. Different targets, same violence. It’s all connected—the treatment of Indigenous peoples, the enslavement of Black bodies, the lynching, the mass incarceration, and now this—the hunting of supernaturals.

It’s the same system of power finding new victims.”

“That doesn’t compare,” Damon says, but there’s hesitation in his voice.

I stand from my barstool and get in his face.

“Doesn’t it? Stop acting like history isn’t repeating itself.

Melanated people built the first civilizations, created mathematics, architecture, medicine—and what did they get in return?

Colonization. Enslavement. Genocide. Now supernaturals face the same fate.

You said it yourself when Granada fell—it’s the same story, just different characters. ”

Damon doesn’t respond because he knows I’m right. He’s seen it too—the pattern repeating across centuries, across continents.

“We’re making progress with the humans,” he finally says, his voice lacking conviction.

I laugh, the sound bitter and cold. “Progress? Tell that to Verde and Petra. Tell that to Carla.”

I take another sip of whiskey, feeling the steady beat of my heart—my heart that beats for Carla, for our children, for the family I never thought I’d have.

“I’m taking my woman and my children out of Wintermoon,” I announce. “They deserve better than this half-life, this constant danger.”

Damon raises an eyebrow, flipping his coin again as it spins through the air. “You’re not taking Carla or any of her children out of Wintermoon. Ever again. Wintermoon is the safest place for them to be now.”

“Who are they calling ‘Daddy’?” I challenge.

Kade laughs, kicking the severed head at her feet. Her bright blue eyes shine with a madness I recognize—the same darkness that lives in me.

“Oh shit, they think you’re their father? Well, that’s a shit show in the making.” She starts counting off on her fingers. “You’re a lunatic, a ruthless killer, a womanizer who fucks everything that moves.”

“I’m a changed man,” I insist.

Kade bursts out laughing. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Poor Carla—she’s got the worst fated mate. You’re going to drive her insane.”

I ignore her because none of that matters now. Yes, I’ve been all those things—ruthless, selfish, insatiable. But Carla has changed everything.

“My quest to conquer as many women as possible ended with Carla,” I say, my voice steady with conviction. “I’m falling for her. I’ve mated with her, sealed our bond. No one can take her from me. I won’t allow it.”

“We need to get this mess cleaned up before the sun rises,” Damon says, clearly done with the conversation.

“Why?” Kade asks. “This looks like a good enough message to leave us the fuck alone.”

Damon glares at her, and she shrugs, unrepentant.

“What you just experienced was the first thirst after your heart awakening,” Damon tells me. “It’s not as bad as the newborn thirst and will die down in a couple of days. You are to stay on Wintermoon until it does.”

I flash him a bloody smile. “Fine. I’ll go find a mop.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “But after that, I am taking Carla and the children—my children—out of Wintermoon. They aren’t staying.”

Damon flips his coin one more time, catching it smoothly. He gives me a smug look. “We shall see.”

Kade groans dramatically. “I’m going to find some gloves.” She bumps past me, scowling. “You could have at least saved me someone to feed on if I’m going to be stuck cleaning up human remains.”

Damon and I stare each other down for a long moment.

I see the vampire who turned me, who taught me to survive, who stood with me on that hillside as Granada burned.

But I also see the man who told me to do nothing, to watch as my civilization was destroyed.

I won’t make that mistake again. I won’t stand by while Carla and our children are at risk.

I turn away, wiping blood from my face with the back of my hand, not giving a shit what Damon says. Carla belongs to me, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me from giving her and our children the life they deserve.

Even if that means I have to kill Damon, my sire.

I move toward the back of the bar to look for cleaning supplies, my mind already racing ahead. To Carla, to our children, to the life we’ll build together—far from this place, far from the hatred and danger that lurks here.

My pulse is steady, a constant reminder of my purpose now. I’m no longer the vampire who watched Granada burn, who drifted through centuries without direction. I’m Carla’s fated mate, father to her children, protector of our family.

And I’ll tear apart anyone who threatens what’s mine.