The white light radiating from Dante Moretti wasn't holy. It was caustic. It smelled like ozone and burning hair, a clinical, bleaching heat that tried to peel the red energy right off Nala’s skin. His hand was a brand around her throat, his fingers digging into the soft tissue not to choke her, but to anchor himself as he began to drain her.
"Dante... stop..." Nala gasped, her heels dangling inches above the vibrating floor.
The man she had known the arrogant, suit-wearing predator from the high rises of Dar es Salaam was gone. In his place was a vessel of pure, blinding ambition. The "White Frequency" wasn't just power; it was a vacuum. It was the Board’s fail-safe. If the Bwire catalyst couldn't be controlled, the Moretti bloodline was designed to consume it.
Dante’s face flickered w
