The Dark City Chronicles ⁓ Book Three
The apocalypse looms ever closer! Steamy romance, heart-stopping action, seductive vampires, magic that defies nature, sprinkles of dark-humor, and, as always, the everlasting bonds of friendship.
Hannah's strug...
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Rising from the bed, Azrael dressed before prowling to the bedroom's double doors. The wood was etched with artistic depictions that seemed to shift and move when the moonlight hit it just right.
He swung them open, revealing a hallway of crimson wallpaper and cold stone. The towering vampire who guarded his rooms stood straighter, glancing down at him expectantly.
"Vincent," Azrael said, blood drying in his hair and covering his hands, but his loyal guard didn't flinch, only stared at him through dark green eyes, waiting patiently for orders.
Leaning his shoulder against the door frame, Azrael said casually, "Send someone to get rid—" He smirked. "Send her corpse to Carla."
Vincent nodded. He was a man of few words. He was well over six feet tall, had a healthy two hundred pounds of muscle, and, most importantly, was fiercely loyal.
"I'd like for you to find someone for me," Azrael said. The voices may be sated, but he was ravenous.
"Who, my lord?"
Moving away from the doorframe, Azrael approached Vincent with a sly smile. He leaned close and flicked his gaze to the doorway, beckoning Vincent's gaze to where the end of the bed could be seen. There was a glimpse of reddish hair.
"I've grown tired of red." Since Rowan escaped, he'd been sending Vincent to fetch pretty girls with green eyes and fiery hair. "I'm starved for something different..."
Vincent smiled darkly.
"Fair hair," Azrael said lowly. "Deep, ocean blue eyes. Young. No older than thirty."
"Tonight?"
"Now." He needed to feed and couldn't drink from Nell because of her treachery.
Vincent nodded. "I'll send for her promptly."
"Him," Azrael corrected, grinning. He wasn't surprised by the flicker of shock that crossed Vincent's face. He'd only ever requested women. But Reid was on his mind, on repeat, making his fangs ache. "And, Vincent..." he purred. "Make sure he's pretty."
Before Vincent could finish his assertion that he'd find someone matching the description quickly, Azrael groaned softly. He suffered a wave of excitement fluttering in his gut.
It wasn't his—it was hers.
And he wasn't in the mood to deal with her antics.
Azrael turned to face the bane of his existence. Isabel modeled a rosy pink, loose-fitting dress, narrow at her thin shoulders and gradually flaring. The hem fell below her knees. She wore tightly laced ankle boots of white leather. He swore that he'd break her if she stomped on his foot like she did the last time she adorned those damnable heels.
"Mother says you've gone positively mad!"
"Mother..." Azrael mocked, sneering at the little brat he'd suffered for over a century. He didn't resist their bond, stealing her breath with his inferno of anger. "Is a cunt who needs to get in line, or I'll forget why I don't break her. Do you understand? I'll drop you off the highest building in Shadow Peaks and laugh as your hollow bird bones shatter."
