Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 42

I'd hurt him. Wounded him with my lies and betrayal. Damaged him with words and fantasy. And it was all there, behind the venomous amber that now flooded his irises completely, behind the way his mouth quivered into a pained grimace.

There was a momentary stab of guilt, but I swallowed it down, burying it deep in the pit of my stomach as I remembered the way he'd ripped Lucius from my hands. Remembered everything he had done. Clara. The compound. Philippe. Harper.

"I should squeeze the life out of you," he said, his voice low and hoarse.

"P-please, Bran," I spluttered. My chest was tightening, my lungs screaming.

"Please? Please?" His lips peeled back from his gums as he bared his teeth at me in a snarl. "You do this, you betray me and then have the audacity to say please?"

Faint growls rippled from the watching Varúlfur guards and Brandon's head whipped around sharply, as if suddenly remembering that we had an audience.

"Get away," he ordered. "Leave us."

The guards hesitated, glancing at each other anxiously. Their reluctance only enraged him more and he dropped me to the floor, leaving me to gulp in some much needed air as he strode towards them. With every step, he seeming to grow in stature, the maelstrom of rage that spun around him like a hurricane making him appear larger than he actually was.

"I said go! Now!" he roared and they collectively shrank back, heads bowed, yellow-flecked eyes averted in deference as they began to retreat down the corridor until they were out of sight. I knew they hadn't gone far though, I could hear them, smell them.

I barely had time to compose myself – as much as anyone could after they'd been throttled twice in a matter of minutes – before Brandon was upon me again, dragging me across the floor and throwing me halfway across the cell. Winded, I lay wheezing on my side, only for him to grab me by my ankles and flip me onto my back, straddling my thighs. Leaning down, he slammed his hands on the floor either side of my head. His dark curls tumbled over his face, perspiration glistening on his forehead.

"I trusted you, Megan."

Megan. He was calling me Megan and that was reserved only for when I'd really disappointed him, except this had gone way further than mere disappointment.

"I trusted you for once to do the right thing. Why couldn't you have just done the right thing for a change? Was it really too much to ask for you to be a good wife? To be a faithful wife? I stuck my neck out for you. I put my trust in you and what did you do? You looked me in the eye and you lied, just like you've always lied."

He was teetering on a knife's edge. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps; hot and heavy on my face and his chest heaved violently. His whole body reeked of sweat and agitation and danger and I was completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but lay there underneath him and desperately hope that the beast wouldn't suddenly tear free from his flesh. If it did, that would be it. There was too much rage, too much hunger, too much hurt and there'd be no controlling it this time. A small patch of skin close to his hairline rippled as if some small bug had buried itself under his skin and was now frantically trying to break out.

He pressed his forehead hard down on mine and I screwed my eyes tight shut and tried to turn my head, not wanting to think about that skin on mine. The growl came again, thicker this time, as if it was bubbling up in his throat, building into something ear-splitting and violent and I couldn't help but flinch when I heard it. It seemed to vibrate for the longest time and my mind bombarded me with cruel images; of his face morphed somewhere between human and beast, of his back hunched, spine exposed, arms and legs elongating, stretching, growing monstrously.