Dante's hand shot out like a striking viper, lightning crackling between his fingers with the fury of a thunderstorm as he gripped Vesper's wrist to stop him from storming off.
The electricity danced across his knuckles, casting eerie shadows on both their faces.
The vampire king frowned—a rare crack in his perpetual mask of amused superiority, like watching marble suddenly develop fault lines.
"What if he fails? How are you going to torture him as you planned?" Vesper asked, his voice laced with something dangerously close to concern.
Dante's orange eyes flashed like molten copper in a forge, lightning crackling in their depths as if his very soul was hosting its own personal electrical storm.
His lips curved into that trademark smirk—the one that had probably launched a thousand nightmares. "Then he's weak. And not worth my time," he mused, the words rolling off his tongue like honey laced with arsenic."
