Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Hawk’s no longer mine, and the anguish of that fact makes me clench my jaws until I taste blood.
The smith roars, and when a push doesn’t get me off, I feel a dire force pry my jaws open. I let go before any of my teeth can crack, but a punch sends me stumbling to the floor with copper on my tongue and stars spinning around my head, along with the whole room.
Hawk’s silhouette is a comforting dark figure, but before I can fully recover, he drops the axe and dashes behind Tassarion, twisting his arms back. “Sylvan! Are you okay?”
Tassarion snarls at Hawk in fury. “I’ll teach you how to behave!”
Even his throat is red and the veins on it protrude from under the skin.
I know what to do.
I know how to break their bond.
My shadow gathers over my fingers, and I shape it into razor-sharp claws. I may not have much talent, but I’ve learned how to make the best of it.
Tassarion’s shadows try to grab my foot, but I leap forward and slash his neck without mercy.
Blood splashes onto my face and spills down his bare chest as his dark eyes lose focus. I’ve gone straight for the jugular, and he’s already collapsing. Hawk lets the smith drop into the red puddle. He steps back, staring at me with eyes the size of necropearls, but his shadow grows unruly again, trembling and pulsing as Tassarion dies at our feet. I’ve never killed anyone with my bare hands before, but I don’t regret a thing.
I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt and spit out excess blood as the crimson flood reaches the tips of my shoes. All I care about is my promised, and as soon as the thread connecting the stolen shadow to Tassarion snaps, I’m there to snatch it.
“You’re a real life psycho twink,” Hawk mumbles, watching me, as if he isn’t sure if approaching me is the wisest of decisions.
I pull a wooden stool close and stand on it so we are face to face as I kiss him. I stare right into his eyes, and slide my hands to his stubbly cheeks. “No one is taking you away from me. Not him, and not even the Lord of the Nocturne Court.”
Chapter 17
Hawk
Istumble with relief when the sticky, unfamiliar sensation in my mind disappears. For a moment, I could almost feel the blacksmith’s flesh without touching it, and when he told me he would treat me well, a sense of nausea overcame my entire body. Now, the intrusive sensation is gone, but I still cannot shake off what I’ve seen.
Shadows danced over the walls as if they’d been images cast from a projector, but I can’t see any device that could have been their source, so how the hell did that happen? I half-expected them to rise off the floor like some freakishly realistic 3D projections and attack the cops, who should definitely have broken into the bar at this point. Then again… how could a space as tall as this forge be hidden inside a random single-story building on the outskirts of Boston? How did I not see the smoke from the massive fireplace, when it has to go somewhere?
Sylvan grabs a wooden stool and steps over the fresh corpse, as if killing this stranger caused him no discomfort. When he puts it next to me and climbs on it, I’m too scatterbrained to realize what he’s doing until his lips are on mine, sharing the taste of the dead man’s blood.
I should be disgusted, or unsettled at least, that this sweet boy has a killer in him, but when he cradles my face and tells me I’m his, I let the moment carry me and roll my tongue against his.
The tips of his… claws dig into my skin, and the very real pain makes me accept the truth. He cut the guy’s neck with tar black claws that grew out of his fingers. The shadows moved at their own accord.
Either I’m in the middle of a mental breakdown or he is really an elven prince.
He was special to me before, but I see all of him now, and believe the unbelievable.
“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry,” he says when two drops of blood drip down my face. I’m not sure if he cut me accidentally, or if it’s the blacksmith’s blood, but I’m too high on adrenaline to register pain well. Sylvan pulls back, and I see the claws melt, slide down his hands and then join his shadow, leaving behind just his lovely, if bloodstained, fingers.
I should think he’s an absolute psycho and run the other way, but who am I to speak? I’ve killed people for the man I thought I loved too.
No one has ever wanted me this much, no one’s ever chosen me, fought for me.