Page 72 of Violence and Vice

“You don’t know what you’re fighting, Lana,” James pants, fury etched into every line of his face. “Cyrus has kept us in the dark long enough. Don’t fight the tide.”

“Why did you have to turn out to be a fucking liar?” I ask with a sigh. “I’m getting pretty damn sick of people who are two-faced.”

He simply shakes his head in frustration and disappointment, just before he lunges.

I duck the first punch. It whistles past my ear. I block the second, redirecting his wrist with a tight parry, and pivot into his space, slamming my knee into his thigh. He grunts but grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks, spinning me off balance. I twist with the motion and elbow him in the throat.

He stumbles, coughing violently.

I charge, fists flying—a combo: jab, cross, hook. My knuckles crack across his cheek, split his brow. But he’s fast—he’s Born, and we’re fucking up his plan.

He reaches for something from his pocket—metal glinting under the low light. I dive, too late.

Steel punches into my chest.

The world shatters.

It’s just left of center—too close to my heart. I feel it slice, nicking muscle, maybe more. My body jerks. Pain flares—white-hot and devastating.

But then?—

I feel the sting shift to heat. My heart stutters… and keeps beating.

I gasp. The regeneration kicks in like a fuse lighting through my bloodstream. I can feel the tissue knitting, the wound sealing even while the blade’s still in me.

James’s eyes widen.

“What the?—”

I rip the blade from my chest.

He flinches back, but I’m already moving.

“Made different, bitch,” I bite.

I punch low into his gut, twice, fast and mean. When he folds, I hammer my elbow into the back of his neck. He collapses to a knee—I wrap my arm around his throat and pull, cinching a standing rear-naked choke. He fights it, slams his elbow into my ribs again, but I hold, legs locked around his torso. He’s slipping.

Then he slams us both backward—my spine hits the edge of something hard, and the wind whooshes from my lungs.

I roll free, coughing.

Behind me, Markus cries out. Roman tackles him. They roll across the floor, fists flying.

The Blood Father—still forming—sits up, a maniacal grin on his face as he watches the chaos. His skin is still raw. His voice is like gravel soaked in evil. He spouts words, but I don’t have any clue what he’s saying. I have no idea what language he would have even spoken in Austria over two thousand years ago.

Fuck, it’s all so disturbing.

Juliet shouts something I don’t catch.

One of James’ brothers lashes out at her, slicing across her side. Roman roars, throwing Markus aside and grabbing the brother by the throat. His grip tightens.

Then he lets go—and rips the man’s heart from his chest.

James is bleeding heavily now, his face a mess from my raking claws. “What thefuck, Lana? You’re not even human anymore,” he spits.

“You bet your ass I’m not.”

He charges again.