Dagger of the Blood Moon
The words taste bitter, but the bond tugs, forcing loyalty even as my gut twists.
His violet eyes narrow, a flicker of something inhuman, shadows coiling in their depths, like voids that swallow light. He grabs my chin, his grip iron, forcing me to meet his gaze, “Don’t forget your place love,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous purr, his breath cold against my skin, carrying a faint, unnatural chill that hints at the fae folk he consorts with - unseen whispers in the dark. He’s only half-wolf, exiled from Iron Fang for crimes he whispers of only in fevered nights; blood rites, stolen artifacts, a pact with shadows that left the pack in ruins. But his cunning runs deeper than any leader’s,
Bab Populer