Lucien Draven:
The first thing I remember is the taste of blood.
Not my own, not Ronan's—but theirs. Those vampires who thought they could toy with us, who laughed at our pain. I had torn through them with a fury I'd never known I possessed, my vision tinted red, my thoughts nothing but a single, driving force: save him.
It's only when I hear Elara's voice, raw with tears, that I realize it's over. That they're dead. All of them. Their bodies lie broken around us, blood staining the cold stone floor. I killed today. 120 years of avoiding murder, I did it without thinking twice And all I can think is: Ronan dying and Elara sobbing.
He's in my arms, limp, his head lolling against my chest. His face is pale—too pale—. Blood smears his lips, and he's barely breathing, each ragged exhale weaker than the last.
My heart is hammering. My pulse is roaring in my ears. The taste of blood still lingers on my tongue,
