Scorched by Darkness (Eternal Mates #18) - Felicity Heaton Page 0,21

fragmented memories of hair like rubies and eyes like gold.

And tears that glistened like diamonds upon her crimson-stained cheeks.

He sank to his knees as his strength left him again, hitting the ground hard enough to jolt his spine, but he didn’t feel the pain through the fire that consumed his body. He clutched his head and bellowed as the roar of noise in his mind made it impossible to gather his thoughts. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, confusion tearing at him as heat rolled down his cheeks, laced with the scent of salt.

“Fight it.” The familiar male voice echoed in the darkness, carved holes in the veil of night to allow light to shine in.

That light blazed gold as a softer female voice bit out, “I’ll kill you too if you don’t get out of my way!”

Kill who? Him? The other male?

The thought of her attacking the other male had his blood running cold and caused a fissure in the darkness so wide and dazzling that his eyes watered.

“No,” he muttered and tried to stand as he pushed back against the darkness, wrestling his way towards that light.

He managed to get his foot against the ground before he collapsed again. What was wrong with him? Why was he so damned weak? He needed to be strong. He needed to stop the male before it was too late.

He would kill her.

A muffled grunt followed by a thud that sent a slight tremor through the ground to him had his blood turning to ice.

The female.

Silence fell.

He strained to hear her, his jumbled senses stretching outwards to find her, fear gripping him in icy talons that pierced right down to his soul. Shuffling footsteps sounded, growing more distant rather than coming towards him.

“No,” he whispered and growled as frustration rolled through him, as he fought the darkness that blackened his soul and filled his mind with images of bloodshed and death.

Her bloodshed and death.

But not at his hands.

He laboured onto his feet again, blinked hard to clear his vision.

His mind cleared instead, the oily haze lifting enough that thoughts formed in order and his senses came back online.

The male.

“Fuery,” he mumbled, locked his focus on the male and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the tangled threads of darkness that were still trying to engulf him again. “No.”

The male stopped and Hartt felt his gaze on him, sensed a trickle of concern through their bond as boots scuffed the dirt and steps grew louder.

“Hartt?” Strong hands claimed his shoulders, clutching them tightly to keep him blessedly upright.

He sagged in his friend’s grip and laboured for breath, fighting the darkness with every beat of his heart, attempting to purge it because he feared that if he didn’t, he would kill someone—and it wouldn’t be his friend.

It would be the female.

He managed to clear his vision, peered beyond Fuery’s shoulder to her where she lay on the dirt, out cold, but not dead. Blood covered the side of her face and dripped from the corner of her lips, and four nasty cuts darted across the right of her chest, from her breast to her shoulder.

Claw marks.

Hartt lowered his gaze to his hands where they dangled before him, stared at his bloodied black talons and growled as anger rolled through him on the crest of a wave of hurt, agony that threatened to rip his sanity from him again. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but he had. The darkness had seized control and he had attacked her and wounded her—might have killed her if Fuery hadn’t come along.

For once, he was thankful his friend had harassed him until he had told him where he was going. Fuery must have felt his pain through their bond, or had felt the darkness, and had come to him in the hope of freeing him from its grip as Hartt had freed Fuery from it so many times.

The female moaned and her nose wrinkled.

Fuery released him and turned in her direction. He began stalking towards her.

Something dark inside Hartt bayed for freedom, snapped fangs and snarled in Fuery’s direction. A powerful rush of darkness swept through him, threatening to wash away his fragile grip on consciousness as Fuery advanced on the assassin.

When the male dared to flex his own black talons, Hartt couldn’t hold back the roar that rolled up his throat.

He launched at the male, filled with a need to stop him, to protect the female.

Staggered and fell flat on his face when

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