Page 31 of Will It Hurt?

Her fangs gleamed in the dim light, serrated and sharp.

I wondered what they would feel like against my skin.

Were they cold like the rest of her? Would they mimic the edge of a knife as they settled against my neck?

Would they burn as they sunk into my veins?

Would I feel her thirst as she drank from me, listening to her grunts of pleasure as she drained the life from my body?

Would I feel her hands cupping my waist as a lover would, holding me up in the air as she sucked every last drop of blood?

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fantasized about her kind. For most of my life, I’d been told that the undead were not to be trusted. It had been drummed into me that without a soul, they didn’t have the capacity for true allyship.

But that didn’t stop me from indulging in the smuttiest vampyre bodice rippers available on the internet.

No. This wasn’t a safe encounter between the pages of steamy fiction. This vamp’s fangs condemned her for what she truly was: a killer.

And I’d be damned if I would be her meek prey.

Irritation curled through me when I realized the dent I’d put into her cheekbone had already corrected itself. She was strong—far stronger than I’d realized before.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” Her voice was low, taunting. “After what you did?”

“What?” I struggled to get the word out under the press of her chest. My ears still rang with the sharp chime of the market games. “I didn’t do anything. ”

Her fingers fisted in my curls, the sharp points of her nails digging into my scalp. The sudden pinch brought tears to my eyes.

“You killed her. I know you did.”

“Killed?” I attempted to say through the pain. “I haven’t killed anyone, you loony.”

“You mean to tell me, deceitful little wytch, that you didn’t stand in that disgusting garden and kill my only child?”

“Not unless they requested it,” I wheezed out. “And we call that neutralization, not murder .”

“Does that help you sleep at night?” she hissed, her free hand cupping my jaw. “Hmm? Taking someone’s life is murder, no matter what you choose to call it.”

I found enough strength to attempt to shove her away, but she didn’t budge. Not one inch.

“This is my job. I do what is expected of me by the High Coven. If you have a problem with our services, you should take it up with them.”

Her gaze narrowed darkly. When she spoke, venom dripped from each word.

“So, you’re completely blameless , are you?” Her nail scraped against my skin, sinking into my flesh. I knew without a doubt that she’d cut me. “You behave as though each person you kill is nothing more a soulless job.”

I knew I shouldn’t provoke her. Hell, I was probably a second away from being crushed beneath her fingers. But…

“I thought the undead don’t have souls?”

She stilled, her features frozen as though she were cast in marble.

“Isn’t that what you give up in return for immortality?” If I was going to die tonight, I’d do it fighting. “I can’t possibly take what you’ve willingly given up… Can I?”

“Little bitch,” she whispered under her breath. “I will enjoy killing you. ”

“I doubt that.” I spoke with a confidence I didn’t feel. “You’ll be violating several treaties between the Night Council and the High Coven if you do.”

“I don’t care— ”

“You’ll care if you don’t want to start a war between our kind,” I said. “I don’t know about the undead, but the murder of a wytch is taken very seriously, considering there are only a few of us left.”

A low growl vibrated from her throat.

“Look.” I placed a hand on her chest, unsurprised when I couldn’t detect a heartbeat. Only younger vamps still mimicked habits from their human days—breathing, eating, sweating. Older vamps like this one had settled into their undead traits.

“Look,” I said again, trying to shake off the nerves. “This is clearly a misunderstanding. I follow orders, all right? This is my job. I’m given assignments and I don’t ask questions. I’ll chalk all of this up to nothing more than a mistake if you’ll kindly remove your fingers from my neck.”

Her canines flashed in the multi-colored Christmas lights, thick and sharp against her bottom lip,

“You plead very prettily for mercy.”

Anger had turned her dark eyes a terrifying shade of red, like embers stoked into a blazing fire. Veins spidered out from the corners, dark and pulsing, as her pupils constricted to a pinpoint.

The eyes of the heartless, the soulless.

My breath stalled.

“That’s nice,” I said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “Do you flirt with all your victims before you kill them or am I just special?”

“Special?” The scoff was guttural. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, little wytch. ”

As the rides flashed green and red, a string of words prodded at my mind like someone insistent seeking entrance.

The spell. The words that had eluded me, locked tight behind a wall of fear, now surged with startling clarity.

The incantation formed before I could think.

“ Maraivaendiram. ”

The word spilled from me in a hoarse whisper, and the magick responded instantly. I felt it surge from deep within, a pulse of energy radiating outward, crackling beneath my skin.

The vamp’s eyes widened in surprise, the smug confidence faltering as the magick took hold. I felt the shimmer sweep over my body, a soft glow enveloping me for a brief moment before the air around us warped, distorting her view.

Her grip faltered, fingers tightening for a heartbeat longer before they slipped away entirely, grasping at empty air.

I stumbled sideways, my breaths ragged as I tried to fill my lungs. Her hands swiped through the space where I had just been, confusion and frustration etched across her rigid face.

I stayed long enough to watch the flicker of realization dawning in her eyes—the frustration, the rage.

The spell thrummed through my veins, every fiber of my being humming with its power. I stood inches from her, invisible, watching as she cursed under her breath, spinning around in search of me.

I knew I should run and put as much distance as possible between us—after all, I wasn’t sure how long the spell would hold. But the look on the vamp’s face was truly priceless, like a cat that had lost sight of its mouse. It brought forth a chuckle, which was a mistake.

She turned, looking straight at me .

“I know you’re there, little wytch,” she said, her words dipping into a menacing growl. “Enough of your tricks.”

I shook my head, knowing she wouldn’t see it, and turned on my bootheel, legging it out of the market.