When the Moon Hatched (Moonfall, #1)

by Sarah A. Parker

Clode’s such a crazy, spiteful bitch. I love her.

You can reshape a turd an infinite number of times, but it’s still a turd. It still stinks.

I consider whether it’s prudent to ask this male if he’d like to fuck before I slit his throat . . . Probably shouldn’t.

Kaan roars louder, stepping around the monstrous male and fisting his hair, ripping his head back far enough to bare Hock’s throat in my direction. My heart stops, the rest of the world smudging into oblivion. Holding my stare, he lifts his toothy, bloody weapon to the stretch of flesh and saws. A breath shudders into me. Hock’s screams start fierce and frantic before tapering into a gurgled groan as his throat is severed in messy, bone-grinding increments, plumes of blood ribboning down his jerking chest like a ruddy aurora.

I look into Kaan’s devastating eyes, a darkness toiling within the fiery depths that’s so unhinged it brings me a strange sense of calm. Makes me feel a little less alone in this fucked-up world.

Fists to flesh. Snarl to bloodlusting snarl. Rage to fucking rage.

“Chase death, Moonbeam. And I pray your bloodlust brings you the same sense of peace I feel just knowing you exist.”

I don’t feel like Haedeon anymore. I feel like Allume—wobbling along, being forged into something strong despite my broken bits. Perhaps I’ll fly, too.

He’s fire and brimstone. I’m shattered ice. Our collision is steam and destruction, destined to dissipate, but I’ll gladly burn beneath him until the world comes crumbling down.

Silence prevails, tension thickens, his eyes burning embers when he finally says, “Raeve, you could flay me down the middle and I’d still fucking love you.”

This is different. I’m now certain she’s hiding something—building her walls sky-high. It’s getting lonely on the other side.

“No, you don’t, Moonbeam. You love me. You’re just too busy feasting on my heart to notice.”