In Cold Blood นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Except the soldati flooding the place, the main house was empty. Not a soul. Up in my room, I stripped. The stitched areas from Schwartz needles were still swollen. I hit the shower, letting the cold water calm my burning soul. ‘BLOOD FOR BLOOD’ And I was a greedy man, I'd take a pint for a drop. Pressing my hands to the wall, with my head bowed, the icy water streaked down my head, along my naked body, and splattered on the ground. First, Padre, then George… and now, Madre…

I remember dying. Not in the vague, dreamlike way people claim when they “almost” do—no hazy lights, no muffled voices calling me back. I remember it with a clarity so sharp it still slices through my thoughts like a blade. I remember the warmth leaving my fingertips first, like the tide receding from a shore. I remember the metallic scent of my own blood flooding the air, clinging to my tongue with every shallow breath. And I remember—most of all—the eyes of the person who killed me.

​Cole stepped back away from Avery, his hands lifting in a desperate, frantic gesture of self-defense, his knees trembling as the apex predator closed the distance. ​The cold war on campus had just turned into a bloodbath.

The physical and psychological violence escalated over the passing hours, a systematic, cold-blooded dismantling of a living man. Blood pooled on the concrete floor, running in thick rivers toward the drain in the center of the room. Despite the unimaginable pain, the historian's resolve held strong. He squeezed his eyes shut, enduring the hellscape without speaking a single syllable regarding Amberly Lynne. The grim, wet sounds of snapping bone and muffled, agonizing screams continued to echo into the dark, endless night.

Silver Title: The Bleeding The floor was cold against my back. I could feel it through my jacket, through my jeans, through every layer of clothing that was supposed to protect me from the world. But nothing could protect me from this. Nothing could protect me from the burning pain in my side, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I was bleeding. I knew it before I even looked down. I could feel it. The warmth soaking through my clothes. The wetness spreads across my skin. The way my body was slowly, steadily, giving up.

The soot-stained snow of the valley didn’t melt; it drank the blood of the High Council’s elite until the pristine white plains of the North looked like a map of broken veins. The silence that followed the massacre was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, agonizing drip-drip-drip of crimson from the edge of Silas’s obsidian broadsword.

The entire horde followed right behind it, a twisting, writhing mountain of pale flesh and flashing fangs ascending toward the ridge. "Fire!" the mercenary commander screamed in absolute panic. The night exploded with muzzle flashes. High-caliber, silver-tipped ammunition tore into the ascending horde, but the blood-born didn't even slow down. The bullets sank into their pale, rubbery flesh with wet thuds, the wounds closing instantly as the black, ancient blood in their veins rejected the metal. A pale hand reached over the lip of the cliff. Before the commander could scream again, he was snatched by the throat, his heavy tactical armor snapping like plastic as he was dragged violently over

They were cold-blooded psychopaths who found pleasure in killing just as I did. I kicked the doors open, bullets flying past me to all those in the club. My men covered me so I could go in with my knife. It was personal for me and I needed to feel the warm blood on my hands as I took their pathetic lives. Chaos erupted with men dropping to the ground one after the other. One grabbed me by my vest and I kicked him, stabbing my knife into his neck.

It was an unmitigated horror of terrible depths. A sob choked in my throat and a shudder wracked my body. I was getting colder. Would I go on a rampage and attack everyone? Why would Vladimir do this to me? The tears did come then, even as the cold rushed on even faster, turning the tips of my fingers a pale blue. Just before I went numb from cold and really did go on a killing spree, or to be more accurate, a life draining spree, I needed to get some help.

During my three-year-old son's preschool physical, his blood type didn't match mine or my wife's. I had just printed the divorce papers when I suddenly heard my son's voice. [This disgusting man is so stupid. He's raised me, his own little brother, as his son for years and still has no idea!] [Lol, hurry up and get divorced. Once they divorce, I can cling openly to my real mom!] [And divorced men are unwanted anyway. From now on, every dollar he earns will be mine!] My wife was still anxiously explaining, "Honey! I really never betrayed you! Do you really want a divorce?" I looked at my son's tightly closed lips and excited eyes, then tore up the divorce papers instead. "No divorce. S