The Dark City Chronicles ⁓ Book Two
The stakes have never been higher! The Demon's Scion is a darker sequel to its predecessor. Spicy romance, action, seductive vampires, gutsy werewolves, sprinkles of dark humour, and, as always, the everlasting bo...
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A DREAM.
No, a vision.
Hannah's in a lulling state of awareness and sleep, forced to suffer the headache-inducing indiscriminate flashes of a future she doesn't want to be shown.
She tries to fight the pull, but can't.
Kane. She sees him kneeling in a sea of blood, his back to her. There's a figure above him, looming and clouded in shadow, offering a hand. Her heart leaps against her chest, but she can't scream for him to not reach out with crimson-dripping fingers.
He does, holding tight, like that hand is the only thing keeping him from drowning in the murky red.
Above, in the starless black sky, a raven circles and laughs humanly.
Before she's thrust into the next vision, she sees the hand that Kane holds, and worn on death's finger is a familiar signet ring.
She is surrounded by cold stone and knows this vision, past or future. The cell no longer keeps her in its torturous chill. She's in Francine's body, seeing through her eyes and feeling her sensations.
Her fingers slip through soft hair. Her bare stomach shivers at the graze of smirking lips moving downward.
She tugs, and the weight of a body draping across her form steals her mouth in a tender kiss that has her heart beating fast enough to dizzy her terribly. She's been dizzy a lot lately. She thinks anyway. Fingertips dance over her naked skin. She arches into the touch, moaning softly.
"Francine," Azrael purrs near her ear. "Darling."
Hannah awakens with a jolt at a touch of fingertips against her cheek. She's smiling before her eyes fully open, this having become welcomingly familiar. The dream slips away. The ghosting shivers of Azrael's deceptively tender touch leave unwanted goosebumps on her skin, but the distracting smell of Kane envelops her.
However, when she opens her eyes, she's not met with a heated green gaze looking for a late-night rendezvous. This is despair so tangible that she's out of bed before she's even thought about throwing off her blankets and swinging her legs over the mattress.
