Centuria Books · The Predator’s Muse
The Predator’s Muse — Read the First Chapter
The monster who terrifies the whole world would rather kneel and die than let a single drop of her blood be spilled.
The Safest Shadow
The auditorium was supposed to be empty. A cavern of decaying velvet and dust where I could lose myself in the music. My bow dragged across the heavy C-string, pulling a deep, mournful vibrato from the antique wood. The sound swelled, filling the hollow spaces of the grand opera house, vibrating up through the soles of my shoes and settling deep in my bones. I closed my eyes. I sought the absolute isolation I had always craved. The stage lights burned hot against my eyelids.
The heavy string vibrated under my fingers, a low, weeping groan that matched the hollow ache in my chest. I shifted my grip on the bow, dragging the horsehair across the strings with punishing force. The rosin dust plumed into the hot stage light like fine smoke. The grand opera house had been abandoned for years, left to rot in the city’s forgotten district. It was the perfect hiding place. No one came here anymore. The velvet seats in the stalls were moth-eaten and draped in thick cobwebs. The gold leaf flaked from the intricate ceiling moldings, raining down like dead scales onto the sloping aisles. But the acoustics remained perfect. Every note I played bounced off the curved walls, amplifying the deep, rich tone of my instrument until the building itself sang with me. I leaned into the cello, letting the varnished neck rest against my shoulder. I poured every ounce of my fraying sanity into the dark sonata.
Music was my only defense. The only time the constant, gnawing anxiety faded into the background.
But isolation was a lie.
Even here, bathed in the solitary stage light, the prickle of absolute awareness crawled over my skin. Someone was watching.
The world outside teemed with things that wanted me dead. Faceless assassins who stalked my every move. Shadows armed with silver blades and ruthless intent. The hunter guild wanted my head. They thought I was a dark witch. They thought my music summoned demons from the dirt. They had already killed my mentor, leaving his body on the steps of the conservatory. They burned my childhood home to the ground. A cold knot twisted in my stomach, a dark, heavy mass that only the music could untangle. Every creak of the floorboards, every draft of cold air in my drafty loft, usually sent a spike of pure adrenaline straight through my chest.
Yet, the heavy gaze burning from the pitch-black balcony did not belong to a hunter.
It belonged to a possessor.
A tremor wracked my frame. My fingers slipped on the fingerboard, producing a sharp, dissonant scrape against the strings. It was not a cold sweat that made my breath catch. It was a dark, heavy flush of heat. A prey animal’s acute awareness of the apex predator lurking just beyond the light. He never spoke. He never revealed his face. His unseen presence wrapped around me, an intoxicating, suffocating blanket of dark protection. I drew the bow again, pressing down harder on the strings. The music turned aggressive. Violent. I played only for him.
The final chord echoed into the dark rafters. Silence crashed down over the stage.
The watcher vanished.
The crushing weight of his attention lifted, leaving the air thin and cold. I lowered my bow. The sudden absence of him left a hollow ache in my chest, a bizarre disappointment I refused to examine. Why did I want the monster to stay? I packed the cello into its hard carbon-fiber case, snapping the heavy steel latches into place. The metallic clicks echoed in the empty hall like gunshots.
The stage door opened into a narrow, brick-lined alleyway. Rain lashed the uneven pavement in thick, unforgiving sheets. Freezing drops bit into my cheeks the second I stepped over the threshold. I pulled the collar of my black wool coat high against my neck, bracing for the long walk to my apartment. Streetlamps flickered out near the main road, casting long, distorted shadows across the wet cobblestones. The city loomed, a hostile cage of brick and iron. The shadows stretched out like grasping fingers, hiding horrors in the pitch black. I gripped the handle of my cello case tight enough to make my knuckles ache.
A faint, desperate sound cut through the heavy downpour.
A high-pitched mewl.
I stopped. My boots slipped on a patch of wet oil. The sound came again, weaker this time. It originated from a stack of rotting wooden pallets near the rusted iron refuse bins. I set the heavy cello case on the wet ground. Water immediately soaked through the knees of my dark slacks as I knelt on the unforgiving pavement.
“Where are you?” The rain drowned out my voice.
A tiny ball of matted orange fur shivered between the broken slats. The kitten was no bigger than my palm. Its eyes were sealed shut with grime and infection, tiny ribs heaving with every ragged breath. The freezing rain battered its fragile body, plastering the thin fur flat against protruding bones. It looked completely broken. Entirely abandoned by the world.
I recognized that kind of abandonment.
“Come here.” I reached into the narrow, jagged gap. The wet wood scraped the skin off my knuckles.
The kitten hissed weakly, a pathetic, raspy sound that broke my heart. I ignored the tiny, needle-like claws digging into the pad of my thumb. I scooped the animal into my hands. It weighed nothing. It was entirely bone and wet fur. I unbuttoned the top of my coat and tucked the freezing creature against my chest, right over my collarbone.
Warmth began to seep into the tiny, shivering mass. I folded the heavy wool lapel over it, shielding it from the storm. The frantic mewling quieted to a ragged, vibrating purr against my skin.
“I have you.” I pressed my hand lightly over the lump in my coat. “You are safe now.”
A low, vibrating hum resonated through the alley.
It was not a sound. It was a massive shift in the air pressure. The rain seemed to slice sideways, completely avoiding a section of the brick wall ten feet ahead. The atmosphere grew thick. Heavy. The oxygen vanished from the alleyway, replaced by the overwhelming, suffocating weight of an ancient presence. The shadows thickened, pulling together into a solid, towering mass.
A massive shape detached from the brick.
He stepped under the flickering halo of the broken streetlamp.
My lungs burned for air. I completely forgot how to exhale.
He was a nightmare carved from flawless marble. Rain slickened his impossibly broad shoulders, plastering the dark, heavy fabric of his tailored shirt to a chest built to crush bone. Every line of his body screamed lethal, coiled violence. The wet fabric clung to the thick, hard bands of muscle spanning his torso, outlining a brutal physique that mocked human frailty. My focus drifted downward, tracking the rainwater as it rolled over the hard ridges of his abdomen, down to the heavy silver buckle of his belt. A dark, heavy heat pooled low in my pelvis. My mouth went completely dry. I forced my gaze up, only to lock onto his hands.
They were massive. Large, pale, map-lined with thick blue veins that pulsed with dark power. Hands designed to snap necks and shatter spines without a second thought. They hung relaxed at his sides, deadly and entirely at rest. His throat was a strong, pale column rising from his unbuttoned collar, the skin luminous and completely unmarred in the dark. I wanted to press my open mouth to that throat. I wanted to taste the rain on his skin. The sudden, violent thirst made my knees weak. He was beautiful. He was terrifying. He was death perfectly packaged in a masculine form that made my blood run hot.
He moved toward me. There was no sound of footsteps. The heavy combat boots he wore made no noise against the pavement. The puddles did not splash. He simply glided across the slick cobblestones, an ancient predator closing the distance.
I clutched my coat tighter over the kitten. I could not move. Adrenaline and a heavy, thick heat warred in my veins, rooting my boots to the ground.
He stopped inches away. He completely dwarfed me. The immense mass of his chest blocked out the streetlamp, plunging me into his personal shadow. The scent of rain, crushed mint, and sharp copper invaded my lungs. It was an intoxicating smell. It smelled like pure, unchecked danger.
He raised one of those massive, lethal hands.
I braced for the blow. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the heavy impact of his fist.
A rough, calloused knuckle brushed the skin of my chest, just above the opening of my coat. Not striking me. Touching the kitten.
My eyes snapped open.
He stared down at the tiny orange head poking from my lapel. His brutal features softened. The sharp, arrogant angles of his jaw relaxed into something entirely peaceful. He stroked the kitten’s wet head with a single, massive finger. The touch was impossibly gentle. A stroke so reverent it completely defied the violent power radiating from his frame.
The kitten leaned into his large, pale hand, purring louder. The tiny creature had no idea it was being touched by a monster.
“Fragile little thing.” His voice was a deep, velvet rumble that vibrated through the soles of my shoes. It was ancient and heavy, rough around the edges like raw silk scraping over glass.
He traced the curve of the animal’s small ear. The gentleness in the gesture was absolute. He asked for nothing from the broken creature. He only offered the warmth of his hand. The sharp contrast between his lethal strength and this quiet, tender mercy made my chest ache. The capability for slaughter radiated from the rigid line of his shoulders. Yet here he stood in the freezing rain, soothing a dying animal.
Then, he shifted his focus to me.
The softness vanished instantly.
His expression turned to solid ice. The aristocratic cruelty returned to his features, sharp and unforgiving. The monster was back. He pinned me with a stare so dominant, so entirely arrogant, I shrank back against the wet brick wall behind me. The sudden shift made my head spin. One second he was a savior. The next, he was a warlord ready to raze a city to the ground.
“Go inside.” He issued the command. The tone expected absolute obedience.
“I—”
“Do not speak.” He stepped closer. The heat radiating from his chest scorched through my damp clothes. “You will go back through that door. You will lock it. You will not come out until the sun rises.”
“My attic flat is only three blocks away.” The protest slipped out before I could bite my tongue.
A dark amusement lit his face. It was not a smile. It was a promise of extreme violence. “If you walk down this street, you will be dead before you reach the corner. Do you understand me, Isolde?”
He knew my name.
Gooseflesh rose on my arms. The way he said it—a dark, possessive drawl—made it sound like a permanent brand on my skin.
“Who are you?” My voice barely scratched past my throat.
He leaned down. His face hovered inches from mine. The flawless perfection of his cheekbones, the sharp thrust of his jaw, the terrifying, bottomless black of his eyes completely overwhelmed my senses.
“I am the reason you are still breathing. Now. Inside.”
He grabbed the collar of my coat. He did not hurt me, but the grip was absolute. Unyielding. His knuckles brushed my jaw, sending a shock of static electricity straight down to my toes. He turned me toward the heavy steel stage door.
I stumbled forward. My hand fumbled with the cold metal handle. I pulled the heavy door open. The warm, dusty air of the theater spilled out into the freezing rain.
I glanced back over my shoulder.
The alley was completely empty.
Only the heavy rain remained, washing away the phantom heat of his massive body. No footprints marked the puddles. No shadow lingered by the brick wall. He was entirely gone.
I pulled the door shut and threw the heavy iron deadbolt. The lock clicked into place with a resounding crack. My knees finally gave out. I slid down the rough steel door, hitting the linoleum floor of the hallway hard.
The kitten shifted against my collarbone, letting out a soft mewl.
I pressed my hand to my chest. The frantic, erratic thumping of my heart echoed the heavy rhythm of the rain battering the roof. I was trapped in the theater. The assassins were out there in the dark, hunting me with silver blades.
But the monster was out there, too.
And he was watching me.
Sanctuary in the Slaughter
Harsh red and blue lights sliced through the rotting velvet curtains of the theater lobby. The grand opera house, usually a forgotten tomb of decaying art, swarmed with harsh noise. Heavy boots trampled the delicate, moth-eaten carpets of the center aisle. A sudden burst of abrasive static spat from a police radio, shattering the ancient, sacred silence of the hall.
Two officers hauled a heavy canvas bag up the carpeted stairs leading out of the orchestra pit.
The zipper snagged halfway. The canvas gaped open under the harsh glare of a portable halogen work light.
It was Marcus. The rival first-chair cellist.
His head lolled back at a grotesque, unnatural angle. The skin of his throat was entirely gone. Torn open in jagged, violent ribbons that exposed the pale, ruined cartilage of his windpipe. Thick, dark blood soaked the collar of his white dress shirt, turning the expensive silk into a heavy, wet rag. Yet, the edges of his pale face were ashen. Sallow. A medical examiner in a plastic coat stood near the brass railing, muttering into a dictaphone about severe, inexplicable exsanguination. The body held zero blood pressure. He had been drained dry.
The sharp, heavy scent of copper invaded my lungs, settling thick and bitter on the back of my tongue.
Gooseflesh rose on my arms. A violent tremor wrecked my hands. I shoved my freezing fingers deep into the pockets of my black wool coat. I refused to look away from the ruined flesh.
Just yesterday, Marcus had cornered me in the sheet music library. He smelled of stale gin and bitter envy. He had trapped me against the heavy mahogany doors, his heavy hand bruising my shoulder as he threatened to ruin my upcoming audition for the principal chair. He called me a fraud. He told me my isolation was a pathetic act.
Then, the temperature in the library had plummeted. Frost crept over the leaded glass windowpanes. A massive, suffocating shadow eclipsed the hallway light, plunging the small room into freezing darkness. Marcus had stumbled back, suddenly clutching his chest as if the oxygen had been violently ripped from his lungs. He fled in absolute terror.
Today, his throat was a hollow, mangled cavern.
The math was terrifying. The reality was intoxicating.
A tired detective in a wrinkled trench coat approached the lip of the stage where I stood. He flipped his notepad shut.
“You did not see anyone enter the building, Miss?” The man chewed on the end of a wooden matchstick.
“No.” I kept my voice flat. “I was in the subterranean practice rooms. The acoustics drown out the street noise. I heard nothing until the sirens arrived.”
The detective grunted. He waved a hand toward the exits. “Go home. We are locking the building down. Do not come back until Monday. The guild of musicians will be notified.”
“Of course.”
I turned away before he could read the dark, frantic truth burning in my eyes. I walked down the sloping side aisle, pushing through the heavy iron fire doors that led to the backstage labyrinth. The heavy metal slammed shut behind me, cutting off the harsh glare of the police lights. Total darkness swallowed the narrow corridor.
I did not go home.
The city outside teemed with ruthless hunters. Men with silver blades and religious zeal who wanted my head on a pike. They hunted me because my music supposedly summoned the dark. They burned my childhood home. They slaughtered my mentor on the stone steps of the conservatory. The streets offered zero safety.
The only safety existed here. In the shadows. With the apex predator who slaughtered for me.
I descended the steep spiral staircase into the damp, subterranean dressing rooms. The air grew frigid, smelling of wet brick and old greasepaint. I walked to the end of the hall and unlocked the heavy oak door of my private room.
A tiny, vibrating purr greeted me.
I knelt beside an open, velvet-lined viola case resting on the floor. The tiny orange kitten lay curled inside, wrapped tightly in my spare wool scarf. Its ragged breathing had smoothed into a steady, contented rhythm. I reached out, brushing a single finger over its soft, fragile head. The kitten leaned into the touch.
The monster had spared this fragile, broken thing. He offered it absolute, tender mercy in the freezing rain.
Then he tore a grown man’s throat out with his bare teeth.
He fed exclusively on other men. He drained rival males to fuel his massive veins, asserting his violent dominance while keeping his lethal hunger far away from my skin. He was a warlord. A nightmare of pale marble and unchecked violence.
And he was mine.
I stood up, leaving the kitten to sleep in the dark. I grabbed my heavy carbon-fiber cello case by the steel handle. The latches rattled as I dragged it out of the room. I needed the music. I needed the punishing friction of the bow to ground the frantic, chaotic energy thrashing in my blood.
I climbed the spiral stairs, emerging back into the wings of the main stage.
The police were gone. The heavy oak doors at the back of the auditorium were chained shut. Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the velvet seats of the first row, a bright, ugly slash against the gothic decay of the theater. The portable work lights had been packed away, leaving only the single, pale bulb of the ghost light burning in the center of the stage.
I walked directly into the halo of the weak light.
I dragged an antique wooden chair to the very edge of the stage. The front legs rested inches from the precipice of the orchestra pit. I looked down. A massive pool of dark, coagulating blood stained the sheet music scattered across the floorboards below. The metallic stench of slaughter drifted up, thick and heavy in the cold air.
I unlatched the case. The polished wood of my antique cello caught the dim light, gleaming like dark syrup. I pulled the heavy instrument free. I sat on the edge of the chair, spreading my knees to fit the wide, varnished bout of the wood against my inner thighs. I adjusted the steel endpin, anchoring the sharp metal tip deep into the rotting floorboards. I tightened the horsehair of my bow, running a block of amber rosin up and down the length. The fine, white dust plumed into the air, mixing with the scent of copper and old death.
The auditorium waited. A cavern of empty seats and absolute silence.
But it was not empty.
The prickle of acute awareness crawled over the skin of my neck. The air pressure in the massive room suddenly shifted. The oxygen thinned, replaced by the crushing, heavy weight of an ancient presence. He was here. He lingered in the suffocating darkness of the upper balcony, a towering, unseen mass of lethal power. He watched me from the pitch black.
My lungs burned for air. I gripped the neck of the cello, my fingers pressing so hard against the strings my callouses ached. I did not run. I chose not to be afraid. I wanted his heavy, obsessive gaze on my skin.
I brought the bow to the heavy C-string.
I dragged the horsehair across the thick wire. A low, weeping groan ripped through the silent theater. The violent note boomed off the curved, gold-leaf ceiling, amplified by the hollow decay of the hall. I shifted my grip, pressing down with punishing, brutal force. The music turned aggressive. Dark.
The thick string wept under the heavy weight of my bow. The deep, grinding frequency traveled down through the endpin, sinking deep into the wooden stage. It rebounded instantly, driving straight up through the front legs of my chair. The heavy friction sent violent, rhythmic tremors through the varnished wood clamped tightly between my knees.
The physical vibration sank directly into my inner thighs.
A dark, heavy flush of heat pooled low in my pelvis. Every aggressive, sweeping scrape of the bow dragged a matching throb of wet, agonizing heat through my core. The friction burned. The music swelled, a mournful, demanding sonata that filled the empty spaces of the room and the hollow ache in my chest.
I arched my spine. The thrumming wood vibrated against my center, a relentless, physical pressure that mimicked the dominant, phantom touch of the monster watching me. I leaned into the heavy notes. I played over a slaughterhouse. A man died a brutal, agonizing death down in the pit, drained dry to assert a predator’s unchecked dominance.
And all I could focus on was the terrifying, possessive warlord who ripped his throat out.
For me. He did it for me.
The monster claimed me with blood. He offered me the absolute safety of his violence. The dark arousal tightened like a coiled spring in my stomach. A damp heat soaked my underwear, driven by the relentless, throbbing vibration of the cello strings. The scent of Marcus’s blood fueled the primal, desperate ache between my thighs. I dragged the bow harder. The music screamed. I wanted to surrender to the extreme pleasure. I wanted the dark to swallow me whole. I played only for him.
The final, heavy chord echoed into the dark rafters.
I froze. The bow hovered an inch above the strings. My chest heaved, pulling the cold, copper-laced air into my burning lungs. The violent vibration slowly faded from the wood, leaving a hollow, throbbing ache deep in my pelvis.
Silence crashed down over the stage.
Then, the heavy, velvet darkness of the upper balcony shifted.
“Keep playing.”
The deep, ancient voice boomed through the empty hall. It was a rough, velvet rumble that bypassed my ears and vibrated directly against my wet core. It was a command from a king.
I lowered the bow. I refused to look away from the absolute blackness of the balcony.
“Show yourself.” My voice barely scratched past my tight throat.
The shadows parted.
He stepped up to the brass railing of the upper tier. The weak glow of the ghost light caught the brutal perfection of his face. His skin was flawless, luminous marble set against the decaying backdrop of the theater. Impossibly broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a dark, tailored shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, muscular forearms corded with heavy blue veins.
His hands gripped the brass railing. The same massive, lethal hands that had stroked the tiny kitten in the rain. The same hands that had ripped a man’s throat open hours ago. Smudges of dark, dried blood stained his pale knuckles.
A violent shiver of pure lust wrecked my frame.
He stared down at me. His bottomless, pitch-black eyes burned with an arrogant, territorial possessiveness that pinned me to the wooden chair. He stood in the high tier like a dark god accepting a sacrifice. He looked at the bloody orchestra pit below me. Then, his sharp gaze snapped back to my face.
The aristocratic cruelty of his features softened. The sharp thrust of his jaw relaxed. The monster looked at me with an ancient, silent reverence that made my blood run hot. I was his single blind spot. The only living thing immune to his endless wrath.
“You play beautifully, little bird.” His voice dropped, turning soft and dangerously intimate. “But you stopped.”
“I am alone in a crime scene.” I challenged him, my grip tightening on the neck of the cello.
A dark amusement lit his face. It was a promise of extreme violence masked as a gentle reassurance.
“You are never alone.” He leaned over the railing. The heavy, suffocating weight of his protection wrapped around my shoulders, an invisible, iron-clad shield. “And no one will ever corner you in the dark again. Play.”
I pressed my knees tighter against the wood. The wet heat in my core throbbed a frantic, desperate rhythm. I raised my bow, surrendering to the terrifying allure of my invisible cage.
I dragged the horsehair across the C-string.
He watched in the dark.
A Bloodstained Kiss in the Velvet Dark
The bow dragged across the C-string, pulling a deep, weeping groan from the antique wood. The sound swelled, bouncing off the curved, gold-leaf ceiling of the forgotten opera house. I pressed the varnished bout of the instrument tight between my inner thighs, anchoring the steel endpin deep into the rotting floorboards of the stage. The friction sent a violent, rhythmic vibration straight up through the wood, sinking directly into my pelvis. A dark, wet heat pooled at my core.
I played for the shadows. I played for the towering, unseen warlord lingering in the suffocating blackness of the upper balcony.
The final chord rang out, echoing into the dark rafters. The violent vibration slowly faded from the cello, leaving a hollow, throbbing ache deep in my center. I lowered the bow. The ghost light cast a pale, weak halo across the empty orchestra pit below.
Silence stretched tight across the auditorium.
Then, a deafening crash shattered the quiet.
The frosted glass of the lobby doors exploded inward. Splinters of antique oak and jagged shards of glass rained down on the moth-eaten carpet of the center aisle. The violent noise ripped through the theater, echoing like a bomb blast.
My lungs burned for air. I froze, my fingers gripping the neck of the cello so hard my knuckles turned stark white.
Harsh, blinding beams from tactical flashlights sliced through the darkness. The beams bounced wildly across the decaying velvet seats, illuminating clouds of disturbed dust. Boots pounded against the sloping floorboards. Half a dozen men stormed through the ruined entrance. They wore dark tactical gear, their faces obscured by black masks. Silver blades glinted under the erratic sweep of their lights. Crossbows loaded with silver-tipped bolts swept the aisles.
“The witch is on the stage!” A harsh voice echoed from the back of the hall. “Take her head! Do not let her speak the incantation!”
They were the hunter guild. The religious zealots who burned my childhood home. The assassins who slaughtered my mentor on the stone steps of the conservatory. They had finally tracked me down.
A silver bolt hissed through the air. It slammed into the wooden backrest of my chair, missing my ribs by a fraction of an inch. The sharp, metallic twang vibrated against my spine.
I scrambled backward. The wooden chair tipped over, clattering against the floorboards. I dragged my cello with me, stumbling away from the lip of the stage. The hunters swarmed down the center aisle, their boots trampling the rotting carpets as they closed the distance.
The air pressure in the grand opera house suddenly plummeted.
The oxygen thinned out, replaced by a crushing, absolute cold. The beams of the tactical flashlights flickered, then died entirely. The sweeping circles of white light vanished, plunging the lower stalls into suffocating blackness.
A wet, sickening crunch echoed from the center aisle.
A man screamed. The sound tore from his throat, a high, agonizing wail of pure terror that abruptly choked off into a wet gurgle.
The shadows above the orchestra pit detached.
Severin did not fall from the rafters. He descended like a plague.
He landed in the center of the hunters with earth-shattering force. The impact cracked the stone foundation beneath the carpet. He rose from the crouch, a towering nightmare of flawless, pale marble and unchecked violence. The weak glow of the stage ghost light caught the brutal perfection of his face. His expression held zero mercy. He was an ancient predator stepping into a slaughterhouse.
The lead hunter lunged, thrusting a silver blade toward the vampire’s chest.
Severin did not even flinch. He moved with a speed that defied the laws of physics. His colossal hand shot out, clamping directly over the lower half of the hunter’s face. His long, pale fingers dug deep into the man’s cheeks.
Snap.
He ripped the hunter’s jaw clean off.
A horrifying fountain of dark crimson sprayed across the velvet seats. The mangled jawbone clattered against the brass railing of the orchestra pit. Severin discarded the thrashing, ruined body without a second glance. He pivoted, his iron-capped heel grinding into the floorboards.
I could not look away. A cold sweat broke across my forehead, yet a frantic, liquid fire ignited low in my stomach.
He was terrifying. He was beautiful.
I watched the lethal, predatory grace of his movements. The dark fabric of his tailored shirt strained against the broad, impenetrable expanse of his back as he reached for the next man. Thick, corded muscles flexed and coiled beneath the wet silk. He grabbed a hunter by the tactical vest and hoisted him into the air with a single arm. The sheer physical power radiating from his towering frame made my mouth go completely dry. His torso twisted, exposing the sharp, aristocratic thrust of his jaw and the long, pale column of his throat. Bright red blood splattered across his luminous skin, painting his flawless cheekbones in the violent colors of a massacre.
He brought his other hand down like a hammer. The hunter’s spine snapped over Severin’s knee with a sound like a breaking tree branch.