Her Strength

Third Person’s POV   Cliff had spoken too soon when he’d thought no blood would be spilt.     Standing in the front doorway, covered in rust-colored stains, was a silver eyed monster.     One month.     Only four weeks after Violet’s disappearance and the Pureblood Prince looked like the shell of the boy Cliff had spoken to in the past.  He’d seemed . . . emotional in the past.  Strong.  Young.  Robust.  There were so many words to describe the arrogant creature he’d once been, the one with the quick wit and squeaky-clean smile—the one standing before Cliff now was none of those things.     “Ah,” Cliff breathed, taking a step backwards.  “How can I help you, son?”  Playing coy, careful to count breaths, control his heartbeat—he knew this was a bad situation.     Standing there in the darkness, motionless, there was nothing but the glow of those eyes.     Silver.     Hungry.     The silence spanned on and those eyes, staring right at him, through him—Cliff glanced behind himself, toward the family room where his wife was asleep on the couch.     She hadn’t been asleep a moment ago.     The television played on and, instinctively, Cliff took another step backwards.     Turning, he came nose to nose with Cronan.     Silver eyes.     Flared nostrils.     “Xavier Rosario?”     His voice was a rough growl.     A bark.     “You sold your only daughter to Xavier Rosario?”     Swallowing, Cliff reached down to tap his cigarettes.  They jostled in his pocket, a comfort in times like these—and these times, they just kept coming.  “Come in,” he sighed, stepping aside to allow the blood soaked Prince enter his household.  Didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter.     “I should kill you.”     “After,” Cliff said, pulling the pack from his pocket, tapping it against his palm.     Cronan was vibrating, this deep growl emanating through him.     Blood lust.     Thirst.     It’s amazing what a blood bond can do to such a powerful creature.     “The kitchen,” Cliff said, turning his back to the raging vampire.     There was silence, then the thud of heavy footsteps following after him.     Cronan Thanisius could kill him but not yet.      He wanted answers.     Cliff’s reasoning.     Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Cliff pulled out a cancer stick, pressing it between his lips, pulling out his light.  “I’ll explain,” he muttered, setting aflame to the end, inhaling black smoke.     The Prince stood just a foot away, looking like something straight out of a slaughterhouse.     Hatred.     Just brimming with wrath.     It would terrify a lesser man.     One that hadn’t already faced death so many times.     “Please,” Cliff muttered, gesturing toward the chair, still huffing in the smoke like oxygen, “Sit.”     The growl that ripped through Cronan’s throat was loud.     Biting.     A promise of brutality.     Cliff just leaned back in his chair, sighing out a long stream of smoke.     Crazed.     And so, so thirsty.     “It’s a long story, kid.”     Cronan’s sneer showed teeth.  No games.  No words.     Cliff nodded, understanding.  “The sale is binding.”     “Where is the contract?”     Another long inhale of smoke.     “I’ll kill them, Blackwell.  I’ll do it slowly.  Make you watch.”     Cliff snickered, nearly coughing on the fumes.  “You’re a bad liar.”     “For her—”     “—you’d kill her own family?”  Cliff smirked, knocking some ash off his smoke.  “Really, kid?  I thought you were smarter than that.”     His tone was sharp, to the point.  “Where is the contract?”     “It’s safe.  Just like she is.”     A scoff.  Loud, abrupt, sarcastic.     Cliff didn’t let it fluster him.  He expected this reaction.     “You think she’s safe with that . . . with him?!”     The tap of his cigarette, ash falling to the table.  Cliff sighed.  “There’s so much you don’t know, kid.”     “Then enlighten me,” Cronan growled.     Cliff kicked at the chair next to him, making it screech across the floor.     Cronan glared hatefully at it, jaw tight, the vein in his neck showing.     Admittedly, it was a gamble.     The kid was covered in dried blood looking half out of his mind.     But still.     He wanted answers.     Answers only Cliff could provide.     Snuffing his first cigarette, Cliff muttered, “Take a seat, kid.”