She gritted her teeth, feeling every ounce of the anger for him rekindle. “I said—”
And that was all she got out. Lorne’s fingers snatched her throat—her painful, aching throat and lifted her against the wall, back rubbing the granite stones. For the first time in centuries, she felt what it was like to not be able to draw air—to have one’s throat closed and need it opened. This feeling of submission—of being at the mercy of someone was demoralizing and infuriating.
“I do not take orders from you anymore, Dyne. Do you understand that?” She clawed at his fingers but he didn’t budge. His face was turned in rage, water drenching him as it ran around his tight expression. Her feet kicked to no avail beneath her. This was a situation that she never thought she would be in. “Do you understand me, Dyne?” he repeated.
He had the advantage over her. This was obvious. Dyne was no more than a hundred and thirty pounds and her once enhanced strength was gone. But she had other talents and skills. In life, she trained longer—harder and when it came down to fighting, she proved time and again that she was capable of handling several such men on her own. She was better than he was and he knew it. He just needed to be reminded of it—here, today, in the pouring rain, twelve years later.
Her mind became focused even though she was on the brink of collapsing. She stopped flailing her legs and scraping at his fingers and placed her arms flush against the wall. With as much power as she could muster, she kicked him between the legs. That was all it took for his grip to loosen and drop her to the ground.
Lorne cried out in agony and fell to his knees, giving Dyne the opportunity she needed. Her fingers wrapped around his matted, drenched hair and pulled him back to deliver a violent blow straight across the jaw. His eyes clenched shut and she pounded him again, this time against the nose. Blood and water flew from her knuckles. The brute tried to get up—to gain the advantage on her again but she kicked his feet from beneath him, bringing him to his knees once again.
Dyne grabbed onto his shoulders and used him as leverage to flip over just as he tried to reach out and grab her. When she landed, she pulled his planted dagger from the muddy ground. Lorne found himself on his back, with Dyne straddling his chest, the blade held firmly across his neck. His face was bleeding profusely, running in pink streams across the granite porch. The thunder was approaching, just as she found her strength—her rage—her determination that made her who she was.
“Who gives the orders?” she screamed. Lorne failed to answer and she turned the blade so the hilt faced down and slammed it into the side oShe gritted her teeth, feeling every ounce of the anger for him rekindle. “I said—”
And that was all she got out. Lorne’s fingers snatched her throat—her painful, aching throat and lifted her against the wall, back rubbing the granite stones. For the first time in centuries, she felt what it was like to not be able to draw air—to have one’s throat closed and need it opened. This feeling of submission—of being at the mercy of someone was demoralizing and infuriating.
“I do not take orders from you anymore, Dyne. Do you understand that?” She clawed at his fingers but he didn’t budge. His face was turned in rage, water drenching him as it ran around his tight expression. Her feet kicked to no avail beneath her. This was a situation that she never thought she would be in. “Do you understand me, Dyne?” he repeated.
He had the advantage over her. This was obvious. Dyne was no more than a hundred and thirty pounds and her once enhanced strength was gone. But she had other talents and skills. In life, she trained longer—harder and when it came down to fighting, she proved time and again that she was capable of handling several such men on her own. She was better than he was and he knew it. He just needed to be reminded of it—here, today, in the pouring rain, twelve years later.
Her mind became focused even though she was on the brink of collapsing. She stopped flailing her legs and scraping at his fingers and placed her arms flush against the wall. With as much power as she could muster, she kicked him between the legs. That was all it took for his grip to loosen and drop her to the ground.
Lorne cried out in agony and fell to his knees, giving Dyne the opportunity she needed. Her fingers wrapped around his matted, drenched hair and pulled him back to deliver a violent blow straight across the jaw. His eyes clenched shut and she pounded him again, this time against the nose. Blood and water flew from her knuckles. The brute tried to get up—to gain the advantage on her again but she kicked his feet from beneath him, bringing him to his knees once again.
Dyne grabbed onto his shoulders and used him as leverage to flip over just as he tried to reach out and grab her. When she landed, she pulled his planted dagger from the muddy ground. Lorne found himself on his back, with Dyne straddling his chest, the blade held firmly across his neck. His face was bleeding profusely, running in pink streams across the granite porch. The thunder was approaching, just as she found her strength—her rage—her determination that made her who she was.
“Who gives the orders?” she screamed. Lorne failed to answer and she turned the blade so the hilt faced down and slammed it into the side of his head. He cried out in rattled pain. “Who gives the orders?” she yelled again.
“Y-you!” he submitted. He coughed a wet, sickly moan. Dyne’s teeth were clenched and her hands were shaking, but that was it. Her anger was at its peak. Its threshold was much higher when she was a vampire.
“Good.”
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