POV Avery
“So congratulations, Avery. You get to be the hero who saves her pack and destroys the monster.”
Something inside me fucking snaps.
Not the careful, controlled crack of someone who’s been pushed too far. The violent, explosive break of someone who’s been holding back their entire life and finally says fuck it to everything.
The rage hits like a tidal wave. Pure, undiluted fury that tastes like copper and feels like freedom.
I twist in her grip, using her own momentum against her. My elbow connects with her ribs—hard enough to hear the breath whoosh out of her lungs. Her chokehold loosens just enough for me to break free and spin around.
This time, I’m the one doing the attacking.
I tackle her with everything I’ve got, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and violence. She tries to roll away, but I’m faster. Angrier. More desperate.
Within seconds, she’s on her back and I’m straddling her waist, hands pinning her wrists to the ground. She bucks, trying to throw me off, but I’ve got leverage and fifty pounds of pure rage on my side.
“My turn to talk,” I snarl, and my voice sounds absolutely feral even to my own ears.
She goes still underneath me, but I can feel the coiled tension in her body. Like a spring wound too tight, ready to explode the second I let my guard down.
“You want to know something, Natalie?” I lean closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough to smell the metallic scent of blood and adrenaline. “If I don’t bring a vampire back to daddy dearest, I get married off to the Alpha of the Bloodfang pack to be used as a fucking breeder.”
The words hit the air between us like a bomb going off.
Her eyes go wide. “What?”
“You heard me.” I tighten my grip on her wrists, probably hard enough to bruise. “While you’re worried about exile, I’m looking at a lifetime of being some psychopath’s personal baby factory.”
“Avery—”
“Bjorn Bloodfang. You know the name? Four dead wives and counting. But hey, he’s got strong bloodlines and strategic territory, so my reproductive organs are apparently worth the political alliance.”
She stops struggling completely. Just stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“So yeah,” I continue, voice cracking with exhaustion and fury, “we’re both completely fucked. The only difference is your people will exile you cleanly. Mine will gift-wrap me with a bow and ship me off to be systematically destroyed by a monster.”
I let go of her wrists and sit back, suddenly drained. The fight goes out of me as quickly as it came, leaving behind this hollow, aching exhaustion.
Natalie sits up slowly, rubbing her wrists where my fingers left red marks. “Jesus Christ, Avery.”
“Yeah. So when you’re talking about destroying monsters, maybe remember that some of us are already being fed to them.”
We sit there in the dirt and broken branches, breathing hard, bleeding from various cuts and scratches. Two supernatural creatures who are supposed to be apex predators, both completely at the mercy of systems designed to use us up and throw us away.
“Exile means death,” she says quietly. “Vampires don’t survive alone. We’re pack creatures, just like you. Cast out means I slowly go insane and then walk into the sunrise.”
“At least it would be quick.”
“At least you’d keep your sanity.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, processing the complete shitshow our lives have become.
“How long have you known?” I ask. “About the marriage thing?”
“Since a few months ago. They brought me the bridal collar to try on. Said I should get used to wearing it.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “How long have you known about the exile threat?”
“Since I turned. Fifty-three years of being told I’m defective, that I need to prove my worth or face the consequences.” She picks at a cut on her palm. “I thought I had more time.”
“I thought I could find another way.”
“Guess we were both wrong.”
We look at each other, and something passes between us. Recognition, maybe. Or just the shared understanding that we’re both too tired to keep pretending we’re something we’re not.
“This is insane,” I mutter.
“Which part? The part where we’re supposed to kill each other, or the part where we keep finding excuses not to?”
“Both. All of it. This whole fucked-up situation.”
“Could be worse.”
That actually makes me laugh. A real laugh, not the bitter mockery from before. “You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one.”
And then, because apparently we’re both gluttons for punishment and terrible decision-making, she reaches over and brushes a cut on my cheek with her thumb.
The touch is gentle. Careful. Nothing like the violence we’ve been trading.
“We should stop,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I agree, but I’m already leaning into her touch.
“This is a bad idea.”
“The worst.”
“We’re going to regret this.”
“Probably.”
But I’m already moving closer, and she’s not pulling away.
Because apparently when your life is a complete disaster and everyone you care about is either dead or wants to use you as breeding stock, making out with your supposed-to-be enemy starts looking like the sanest option available.
Her hand slides into my hair. Mine finds the curve of her waist. We’re both bloody and exhausted and completely fucked, but when she kisses me it feels like the first honest thing that’s happened all night.
It’s desperate and messy and tastes like copper and regret, but it’s real. More real than political alliances or family expectations or any of the bullshit we’ve been drowning in.
I’m just thinking that maybe we can figure this out, maybe there’s a way through this disaster that doesn’t end with both of us destroyed, when a voice cuts through the night like a blade.
“Well, what a sight. A vampire and a werewolf.”