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Screamer’s was packed tonight, full of women wearing leather and men who looked like they had advanced degrees in violent crime.
both my types 😋😋😋
“I’m going to talk to her.” “And how’s that going to go? You’re just going to walk up to her and say, ‘Hey, I know you’ve never seen me before, but I’m your dad. Oh, and guess what? You’ve won the evolutionary lottery: You’re a vampire. Let’s go to Disneyland!’” “I hate you right now.”
he might be my favorite
He was the last of his line, the only purebred vampire left on the planet, and though his race revered him as its king, he despised his status.
THE last???
It was almost tragic that he was the best bet Darius’s half-breed daughter had of surviving. Wrath’s blood, so strong, so untainted, would increase the chances of her getting through the transition if it hit her. But Tohrment wasn’t off the mark. It was like turning a virgin over to a thug.
oh yikes
“Shit. Here he comes,” Tohrment muttered. He tossed back his Scotch, swallowing it whole. “No offense, but I’m outtie.
"outtie???" how old is this man? 😭😭😭
Wrath was six feet, six inches of pure terror dressed in leather. His hair was long and black, falling straight from a widow’s peak. Wraparound sunglasses hid eyes that no one had ever seen revealed. Shoulders were twice the size of most males’.
he's got yaoi proportions
Dick reached out to pat her shoulder, stroking it as he took his hand back. “You just keep working the blotter. Let the big boys worry about the violent crimes. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”
well THAT'S a threat
When she was finished with the Twinkie, she flipped open her phone, hit speed dial, and put in an order for beef with broccoli.
i forgot this isn't a modern series, fucking 2005 🤣🤣🤣
It was a Friday night in the early part of July, so the college turks were still fresh out of school and aching to compete in the Stupid Olympics.
🤣🤣🤣
From behind his dark glasses, his eyes strained against the dim lights, and he shut his lids. His vision was so bad that he was just as comfortable with total blindness.
I guess a vampire cant get lasik, huh?
If he ran into something, he didn’t care. Whether it was a chair, a table, a human, he’d just walk over the damn thing.
He had the impression of big breasts and a strip of flesh between her tight shirt and her short skirt.
he can't see much but he's gonna sense those tiddies
If it had been anyone else, Wrath would have used his favorite pair of words: fuck and off. As far as he was concerned, there were only two good positions for a human. A female on her back. And a male facedown and not breathing.
rude
Damn his parents. Why had they given him a female like her?
Some bridges you crossed on your own, no matter who drove you to the edge.
Beth stepped back. Hard-ass was a lot of man. Big body, deep voice, attitude to spare. She supposed a lot of women must be attracted to him, because God knew he was a looker in that rough, tough kind of way. But Beth had never felt a spark. Not that she ever did when it came to men.
Vishous came into the room. The goatee he’d recently grown made him seem even more sinister than usual, although the tattoo around his left eye was what really put him into ominous territory. Tonight his Red Sox hat was pulled down tight so the complex markings on his temple barely showed. As always, his black driving glove, used to keep his left hand from inadvertently making contact with anyone, was in place.
Rhage was a towering male, big, powerful, stronger than all the other warriors. He was also a sex legend in the vampire world, Hollywood beautiful with the drive to rival a barnful of stallions. Females, vampire and human alike, would trample their own young to get at him.
Phury was the last, walking through the front door with his limp barely noticeable. His prosthetic lower leg had recently been updated, and he was sporting a state-of-the-art titanium-and-carbon composite number now. The combination of rods, joints, and bolts was screwed into the base of his right shitkicker.
That Zsadist was late was no big surprise. Z was one giant, violent fuck-you to the world. A walking, sometimes talking, usually cursing SOB who took hatred, especially toward females, to new levels. Fortunately, between his scarred face and his skull-trimmed hair, he looked as scary as he was, so folks tended to get out of his way.
the twins are going to be my favorites
Hands down, Z was the most dangerous of the brothers. After what he’d been put through, he didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. Including his twin. Even Wrath watched his back around that warrior.
“Fritz!” he called out. The butler came rushing in. “Read this.” Fritz took the sheet and bent his head, falling into silence. “Aloud,” Wrath bit out.
tbf you didnt specify
He chuckled softly. “Man, what’s José got that I don’t?” “You want a pen and some paper? It’s quite a list.”
Yeah, he’d handled it beautifully. Smooth as gravel.
“Do you love me, baby?” she whispered in his ear. “Yeah, sure.” He smoothed her hair back and looked into her eyes. They were vacant. He could have been any man, and that was why their relationship worked. His heart was as empty as her stare.
Power granted was the only form of praise he was interested in.
A leader gathered his thoughts before he spoke; he did not rush to the podium to be adored. Ego, after all, was the root of evil.
After all, the brothers had to feed, and it couldn’t be off one another. They required female blood. And females, even if most of them were sheltered like precious art, had brothers and fathers who could be persuaded to talk. With the proper incentive, the males would reveal where their womenfolk went and who they saw. And then the brotherhood would be revealed.
You had one shot with a warrior. If you didn’t make it mortal, you were not making it home.
On that day, as he’d stood over his father’s corpse, Mr. X had learned that screaming at the dead wasn’t even remotely satisfying. There was, after all, nothing to be taken from someone who was already gone.
A male who stayed with her during those torturous, mercifully rare times when she was fertile. Who eased her terrible cravings with his body for as long as the needing period lasted. Wrath did none of that for or with her. Especially not the last part. As it was, Marissa had to go to her brother for relief of her needing. Havers would put her out cold, tranquilizing her until the urges passed. The practice embarrassed them both.
He was not going to fight in BVDs. He’d go commando before he got caught dead in those things.
I dont know what those are
It was goddamned weird having someone waiting for him to come home, Wrath thought.
Wrath thought back to his own transition. What a goddamned mess that had been. He hadn’t been prepared either, because his parents had always wanted to shelter him, and they’d died before they’d told him what to expect.
Over the course of his time in London’s slums, he’d been beaten so many times he’d grown used to parts of him not working right. It was nothing new to have a leg that wouldn’t bend because the kneecap had been stoned. Or to have an arm that was useless because it’d been popped out of his shoulder as he’d been dragged behind a horse.
His eyesight, impaired from birth, had been poor back then but far, far better than it was now. He could still remember with aching clarity what the sun had looked like.
She was terrified of what was going to happen when he reached her, but noticed, absurdly, that Boo was purring and wrapping himself in and around the man’s ankles. That cat was a traitor. And if by some miracle she lived through the night, he was getting downgraded to Tender Vittles.
This half-human was the hottest thing he’d ever gotten anywhere near. And he’d cozied up to a lightning strike once or twice before.
On the second pass, he found what he was looking for, a blonde with long legs and a big rack. Just the kind of whore he would have bought for himself if he’d still had an operational phallus. He was going to enjoy this, Mr. X thought as he hit the brakes. Killing what he couldn’t have anymore carried its own special satisfaction.
His actions flew in the face of his notions of himself. He’d always been a gentleman, a scholar, a healer. A male not subject to the base desires of his race. But then, he’d always been well fed.
Havers wasn’t arrogant, but he knew he was the best doctor his species had. He’d gone through Harvard Medical School twice, once in the late 1800s and then again in the 1980s. He’d stated on his application in both instances that he was disabled, and HMS had permitted him special allowances. He hadn’t been able to attend the lectures because they’d taken place during the day, but his doggen had been allowed to take notes and hand in his examinations. Havers had read all the texts, corresponded with the professors, and even attended seminars and talks that were scheduled at night.
He shut his eyes, concluding that she’d been to feed the night before. Every time she saw Wrath, she would retreat into herself for days afterward.
Rhage was cursed. Literally. He’d gotten himself in some serious trouble right after his transition. And the Scribe Virgin, that mystical force of nature who oversaw the species from the Fade, had given him one hell of a punishment. Two hundred years of aversion therapy that kicked in whenever he didn’t keep himself calm.
Wrath calmly introduced Rhage’s back to the wall, almost taking out a mirror with the male’s shoulders. “You will shut the shut up or you will be six inches shorter. Your pick, Hollywood.”
His nose detected all manner of disease, and he wondered if she’d known she had an advanced case of hep C. He figured he was doing her a favor, sparing her an unpleasant, creeping death. Not that killing her would have bothered him had she been perfectly healthy.
That female was dangerous to him. If she could affect him like this without even being in the damn room, she might just be his pyrocant.
Man, Wrath sure had his own demons, and they were no walk in the park, but he wouldn’t have wanted Vishous’s cross to bear. Seeing what had yet to come was a terrible burden.
Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy, he thought. For the price of admission, you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder, and an inferiority complex. Yippee.
A minute later he stopped resisting altogether, his arms dropping and hanging loose. He wanted to fight. He had the will to fight. But no longer the strength. And as for death? He was okay with it. He was going to die in the line of duty, albeit like an idiot, because he hadn’t asked for backup. Still, it was better and quicker than ending up in a hospital bed with some nasty, slow growing disease. And more honorable than shooting himself. Which was something Butch had contemplated once or twice before.
“You don’t know this yet,” he said grimly. “But you are mine.”
