The Alpha's Fated Kiss
I’d failed them.
Then a new voice cut through, sharp and young, laced with a Brooklyn accent thick as plantains: “Yo, get your hands off my tia!”
A figure burst from the alley’s shadows—a girl, maybe seventeen, Puerto Rican like us, her braids flying, a machete in one hand, a glowing tablet in the other. Her eyes were Javier’s eyes, brown and fierce, her jaw set like Elena’s. She slashed the river, the machete sparking, severing a tendril. Ichor sprayed, hissing. “I’m Rosa Vasquez,” she spat, “Javier’s niece, Sofia’s sobrina. You want the family? You go through me.”
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