Nursing the Murderer Alpha King
His knuckles flex around the handle.
Fuck. He’s beautiful like this.
That thought hits me sideways with admiration crawling up my throat at the worst possible moment.
“Dante,” I murmur, low. “You don’t have to—”
He swings.
There’s no slip this time with no hesitation. Just clean, brutal force.
The hammer slams down.
The lights don’t climb.
No, they explode upward.
The meter hits the top and keeps going. The machine shrieks, sparks popping at the edges. The digital screen glitches, numbers flashing erratically before cutting out completely. The bell at the top rings so hard it snaps loose and clangs against the frame.