The third man didn’t even have time to scream before his trachea was crushed into something resembling wet paper.
Pitch black.
The penthouse was completely devoid of light, but the air was thick with the heavy, suffocating scent of ozone, copper, and ruptured intestines. Jane didn’t move. Moving in the dark was an unpredictable variable. She stood perfectly still near the kitchen island, tracking the violence by the wet thuds hitting the imported Italian marble.
Blue sparks erupted in the darkness. Ryan was swinging the stun baton blindly. The stroboscopic flashes of electricity illuminated jagged, terrifying frames of the nightmare.
A severed arm wearing silver chainmail.
A spray of crimson painting the white walls.
And Michael.
He wasn’t shifted. He was doing this in his human for
