Page 6 of Fangbanger

He’s a murderer.

My focus narrows to nothing but killing him. I’ve been training for this, pushing myself every night, going to sleep shaking and exhausted.

He pins my wrists over my head. I want to shout at how futile this feels, how much stronger he is, how not a single ounce of my training seems to matter in the slightest against him.

“Die,” I snarl. I crack my forehead against his. A last resort of the weaponless. I use his distraction to fumble for a stake with my good hand.

“I will not die bound to another.” Anger shakes his voice.

I push against his weight, fighting for leverage. “I don’t care,” I rasp. “You ruined my life.”

“And you are ruining mine,” he snarls. “I won’t be bound by anyone again.” His gaze is frantic, dipping to my neck, then away.

I just need to get a stake between us. I just need—pain short-circuits my thoughts as he lifts me from the floor. My lungs are burning. My legs are weakening. I want to curse or cry. I will never be strong enough to kill him. Never. He slams me against something, growling that I need to remove the spell. A wall. A piece of furniture. I’m not sure. But I hear a crack.

My back?

I wait for pain.

No, I am pain.

I am drowning in it. Somehow, I take a single, jagged breath. My fingers are limp around the stake I’ve somehow drawn. I can do nothing but wait for more. Marcus’s arm bars my throat. His hand anchors my hip, fingers digging cruelly into the thin skin. I wriggle against it, and he growls low in his throat. I can see him deciding how to kill me. My demise flickers in the silver-black of his gaze.

How dare he be so strong, so ruthless, so much better? I feel like a gnat in front of a lion. Not a hero, but a fool, like he says. I will die here, in this darkened hallway, and he will walk away, with barely a scratch. The way he did twenty years ago.

“Remove the spell,” he demands. His voice is rough and savage, and I feel his fury. It’s a cold brand at the base of my skull.

“Can’t.”

He snarls and shakes me. My vision wavers. I sip at the air. He is watching me avidly, probably drinking my pain, savoring it. I will my face to be blank, even as I fight the storm inside my chest.

I am no better than my parents. I am just as helpless as I was at eight, and I rail against their memory like I did then. How dare they leave me alone? And then shame follows my anger, shame that I did nothing, that I dare to be mad at them when they loved me enough to die for me.

He killed them and he made me weak.

I hate him.

I try to rasp the words. I push against his arm until my vision blackens. My lips part. His hold on my throat eases slightly, as if he’ll permit me to speak.

“I despise you.”

His eyes widen. “I can feel you.” That low, vicious, voice is tinged with shock. “Is it you in my head?”

I blink. He can feel me? Like I can feel him?

“I can feel how much you hate me.” He marvels briefly before his eyes narrow. “Killing you will break this spell. It’s not real.” A shake of his head. “None of this is real.”

He displays his fangs. I’m fighting to stay conscious. Why? I’m not sure. I suppose I want to meet death head-on.

Above us, there’s an ominous rumble, another crack. His focus is elsewhere for a precious second. I wrench my wrist free and stab wildly with my stake. Not at him. At my wounded left hand, tearing at the wound, pulling a whimper from my throat and sending pain cascading up my arm. I can’t aim in the dark. I need a spray of blood. Enough to trigger the spell that’s under his feet.

The spell ignites in a shower of pink sparks. I sag in relief. It’s done. He can’t leave.

“What have you done, slayer?”

I bury my stake in his chest and smile.

Another crack.