Chapter One Sneak Peek: Omega Untamed (Lost Wolves Book Five)!

Woo-hoo! The book comes out in less than a week! Friday, January 1st!

To celebrate, let's enjoy some lovely work from Yoneda Kou's Twittering Birds Never Fly. Am I obsessed? Maybe. . . . Also, Dagz is slightly Doumeki-ish in his love of Abel.

Hottest bj ever.

How Dagz follows Abel when they first meet. 

Now, check out the first chapter! Enjoy!

Breaking and Entering

Abel Mircea crouched in the rafters above the throne room, the shadows shrouding him in darkness. If not for the lack of bells on his person, and the black clothing, it reminded him of the old times when his presence, while not exactly welcome, also wouldn’t result in his head being rudely separated from his shoulders if he were found out.
Regicide had that effect on people.
It’s not as if he’d return without provocation, and a damn good one at that—a reason that made it worth coming back to the kingdom of his childhood. The same kingdom that banished him as a youth of sixteen regardless of his regal upbringing and status as the only other alpha with the Mircea name.
His home.
By all rights, Abel was a prince of this place, though that fact never set well with him or anyone else in the kingdom. Hence, he was hiding from the shifters who moved below him, few he recognized after all this time. Still, if they caught him, he’d have to play his part in a bloodbath that would stir up more trouble than it was worth. Then they’d have even more reasons to despise him.
Well, Abel wasn’t hiding so much as lounging and waiting for a chance to make his move. A chance to catch the good King Lucien on his own. Or, at the very least, alone-ish.
Abel had business with the wolf who banished him.
He let out an inaudible sigh, tossed one of his daggers into the air and caught it with the ease of long practice. His legs cramped at the thighs, and he leaned against the cold stone wall at his back and let one foot dangle over the edge of the beam. His black boots laced up to his mid-calf and were made of soft leather, the kind you could only find in shifter kingdoms anymore.
Almost everything in human territory was made in factories with machines and not tooled by hand. Sure, certain things were convenient—air conditioning, cell phones, the Internet—but Abel lived half his life without any of them.
While human lands could support electricity and other modern inventions, magical barriers upheld by the Old Ones kept the shifter territory isolated and safe. It also meant magic thrived in shifter lands and was impossible in human ones.
Not that that mattered to Abel. He might’ve been an alpha, but he wasn’t magic. Not like Lucien.
Sneaking into the castle at Baia de Aramă was easier than it should’ve been. The patrols at the borders were paltry, even with the number of silver traps on the human side.
That spelled hunters—humans who killed shifters for a living. And if hunters were there, Abel had a good notion why he was there as well.
When he left, fifteen years before, tucked into the back of that circus wagon (the red paint fading and the posters on the side curled with age), Abel thought Lucien would do something great with Wallachia.
Lucien had returned from his capture in Istanbul unfazed—stronger than before with those startling tattoos. Secured his place as king. Banished Abel for that whole usurping thing. Then, in the years that followed, Wallachia gained a note of infamy due to its relentlessly brutal king.
Yet, Abel slipped past all the guards under the cover of darkness (after two days of watching their movements to be sure no one saw him). His scent blended with the other shifters enough that the guards on duty didn’t notice it, but they should have.
All in all—disappointing.
Abel thought he’d get at least a slight challenge when creeping into the home of the king who impaled the country’s enemies in great fields at the borders for all the other hunters to see.
That was the king Abel wanted to face.
Still, being back in the castle of his youth reminded him of things he hadn’t thought about in years. The smell of the fire in the great hearth and the bustle of castle life that carried on beneath him brought a slight tinge of regret to the center of his chest.
Not his heart, because that was foolish, but just to the left of it.
And it was in no way regret for his actions—the ones he took that led him to this moment or the ones he would take when Lucien finally expelled everyone from the room, and they had their little reunion.
One on one.
Being an assassin was much more interesting than being stuck ruling a shifter kingdom any day. If Abel could’ve inspired his fellow shifters to follow him in the first place. Being an alpha didn’t mean they’d listen to him given his certain shortcomings.
Even he could make jokes about it.
No, Abel was much better at sticking to the darkness and waiting for his brief moments in the spotlight. A king had to be regal at all times—fair and just—boring, mostly. An assassin only needed to get the job done, and if he added his own brand of flare, that made it so much better.
Below, Lucien leaned his scruffy chin on his fist, elbow on the side of the throne, and crossed his leather-clad legs. It wasn’t the Obsidian Throne at that crumbling castle tucked into the heart of Wallachia, but one carved of oak and terribly basic. His shirt was open, revealing the black tattoos that swarmed over his flesh like maggots over rotting corpses. His pale blond hair was even fairer than Abel’s own, nearly white, but that was due to the king’s unique condition and not their shared genetics.
For a moment, Abel swore Lucien’s blood red eyes caught sight of the glint of metal in the rafters, the knife in Abel’s hands, and a smile twitched at the edge of his lips.
Then the moment passed and Lucien sighed. “And the grain stores, how are they?” the king asked.
His voice was deeper than Abel remembered. Steady and strong and not nearly as angry. Though, to be fair, the last thing Lucien said to Abel was supposed to be angry considering the situation.
A king didn’t banish his subjects with a smile and a laugh, after all.
Before Lucien stood a lovely hawk with a clipboard and ballpoint pen that obviously came from human territory. A quill was tucked behind her ear. She wore trousers and a tunic shirt with a vest, but Abel could hardly blame her. Traditional women’s garb was much too restrictive.
“Steady. We had a good harvest last fall and the decline in the population helped. Even with the additional pups, the stores held after the winter. The new grain is growing well, but with the problems at the borders. . . .”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
The hawk lowered her gaze and cleared her throat. “The farmers haven’t been able to plant as quickly as they’d like. Hunters continuously stalk the edges. Lay traps. I’m sure you’ve gotten this information elsewhere, your majesty.”
“I have, but I still need to hear it from you. Is that all?” Lucien asked. The fist his chin rested on tightened until the knuckles blanched. His other hand hung loose in his lap.
The hawk straightened her shoulders and shook her head. “No. I have further word on the circus troupe that left our borders last month and was attacked in Belgrade—one of the farmer’s sons heard the news while getting supplies.”
That got Abel’s attention. Not many circuses traveled between shifter and human lands freely. In fact, Abel only knew of one: Cirque de la Fleur.
He sat up straight and nearly missed the next toss of his knife. It bounced off his palm, and he leaned forward and grabbed it right before it tumbled onto the flagstones below.
That would be one way to make his entrance. Not the way he wanted to make it, however. A loud clatter of metal on stone, all eyes on him, and Abel would be forced to kill an innocent hawk just because she saw him.
Abel’s heart throbbed in his chest, and he willed it to slow. The other shifters who’d been milling around the throne room for the last hour filtered out before the hawk gave her report, leaving Lucien alone with her.
Which wouldn’t have normally been a problem—despite Lucien’s magic and prowess as a fighter, Abel had been refining his various skills longer than the king had by far. But that hawk was a problem, because the only person who Abel wanted to see was Lucien.
No one else.
Like most shifters, the hawk’s hearing was good. Thankfully, her eyes were probably better than her ears, and she didn’t seem to notice the extra heartbeat in the room.
That just left Lucien.
If he’d clued into Abel’s presence—
Lucien blinked. “Did the boy hear anything else of substance?”
The hawk glanced at the clipboard, and her face paled. “Someone killed the human troupe members and took the shifters. He heard a group of hunters talking about it in town.”
 Lucien sucked a deep breath through his nose and nodded. “Belgrade. That close. The bastard is planning something. Anything further?”
The hawk shook her head once. Negative.
“You’re dismissed. And I’m not to be disturbed for the next hour. I need to think,” Lucien grumbled and curled his lips into a snarl.
The hawk strode out of the room purposefully and the heavy doors shut behind her with a grinding boom that echoed throughout the room.
Once she was gone, the sounds outside the room—the chatter of the other shifters in the castle—the hushed whispers of a coming war: What to do about the Ottomans? The hunters in the Bulgarian borderlands? Most of all, Arno? It all dulled to nothing but background noise.
Lucien raised his brows and stared into the shadows above his head.
Abel stood, easily balancing on the thick beams beneath his feet. He’d been at this since he could walk, and it showed. He held his knife clasped firmly in his fingers and let it fly with a practiced flick of his wrist.
It cut through the air with a slight hiss, and Lucien’s eyes narrowed as the blade embedded in the heavy wood next to the king’s head.
“You missed, dear cousin,” Lucien growled and stared into the shadows where Abel hid.
Abel chuckled and leapt forward. He caught the beam in front of him, swung and did a graceful somersault into the air before he landed on the carpeted floor at Lucien’s throne.
“I did that on purpose. It’s been too long, Lucy,” Abel said and smiled.
Lucien rolled his eyes, but a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth nonetheless. “It has. I’ve heard about your exploits. You even managed to get into Moravia without losing your head.”
Abel shrugged. “And you’ve gotten in the habit of hiring out assassins and mercs for your dirty work. I thought you were going to make Wallachia great again, dear cousin.”
The tattoos on Lucien’s chest swirled at those words, but the king kept his expression friendly. “Do you think you’d have done better?”
Abel really didn’t have to think about that. The idea of him ruling an entire kingdom, especially one with a long history like Wallachia, was as likely as Abel winning a height contest.
“Not at all. Though, I do like your nickname. Bloody King. I didn’t know you had it in you, but the pikes were a work of art. And I hope you employ them again with this new batch of hunters.”
That got a reaction. Lucien’s jaw tensed and he sat up straight, uncrossing his long legs.
This throne room was smaller than the one at the former capital. The windows at the back, tall and narrow, only let in the light in the afternoon, and now it fell across the floor in golden shafts through the moth-eaten velvet drapes, which were a dark and dusty purple. Hideous, but the color meant ‘royalty’ and they needed to keep with tradition on some things. 
Abel was surprised they were open at all considering Lucien’s aversion to light. Ironic, all things considered.
“I thought that would act as a deterrent against further attacks. It seems I miscalculated, unfortunately.”
“Or they saw it as an act of aggression by another insane Wallachian king. There have been so many I think our neighbors may have lost track,” Abel said with a smile. He stepped forward and reached for his knife.
As he tugged the blade free of the throne, Lucien frowned. “Our neighbors have never looked kindly on us. Even less so since I took the throne. The Sultan is looking for any reason to invade, and the hunters cut my ranks and keep me too busy to confront him.”
“Yes, you must be desperate to summon me, of all people. I know you never told Mirela the truth, but have you told your mate what we did? How we put a disgraced prince on the throne after years of absence?” Abel said and flipped the blade in his fingers.
Lucien’s gaze hardened, and he let out a snort. “Does it matter now? You didn’t want to rule. What choice did we have?”
He probably meant the words to sting, and they didn’t. Much. “We could have left your father alive.”
“Is that what you wanted?” Lucien asked, his voice gruff and pained.
Not the reaction Abel was expecting, really. He thought Lucien would challenge him to a fight of some kind. Or roar at him like a normal alpha. He’d been so much angrier when he got back from his imprisonment at the hands of the Ottomans.
Before Abel could respond, a smaller door at the back of the room creaked open.
Abel’s grip tightened on the knife, and Lucien tensed, his body rigid.
A wolf stepped into the room, and his blandly handsome face showed no emotion beyond mild surprise when he turned to them. His hair was short and brown and matched his shrewd brown eyes. Unlike Lucien, this wolf’s cheeks were smooth, and he looked much younger than Lucien’s thirty-five. He gave no sign that he recognized Abel. But Abel did recognize him. “Am I interrupting something?”
Lucien’s strong hand closed on Abel’s wrist and squeezed. “He’s my mate.”
Abel dropped the knife and yanked his arm free. “As you wish, your majesty.”
“Is he the one you were talking about?” the mate asked.
Abel wasn’t so uninformed as to not know about his cousin’s new mate. The castle wasn’t buzzing with it like they’d probably been when Lucien first announced it, but news of an alpha like Lucien being mated to a mere omega traveled. It gave the shifters in the kingdom a glimmer of hope in the midst of the current hunter attacks.
“Felix,” Lucien said, looking at the omega. “This is my cousin, Abel. He’s the assassin I summoned.”
“We’ve met, but it was a long time ago. I doubt this omega remembers me,” Abel said, and smiled when Felix’s face smoothed into a blank mask.
Oh, he was good at hiding his emotions, but that didn’t mean much. Not when Abel was even better at getting people to reveal themselves.
“Have we?” Felix’s accent was British and posh but with a hint of something rough underneath. He wasn’t a typical rich brat, that was for sure.
“Briefly. But I don’t think you’d been working for long. I killed one of the men you were trying to con. Your sister was furious, even after I offered her what she wanted to steal in the first place.”
Felix’s dark eyes remained impassive, but his mouth quirked. “She’s like that.”
“Did Lucy tell you why he’s hiding me from the rest of his shifters?” Abel asked and kept his eyes on the omega, though he felt Lucien’s glare trying to burn a hole into his skull.
If his cousin didn’t want him pressing those buttons, he should’ve found a different assassin. That he contacted Abel meant something.
“Lucy?” Felix said, his brows rising. He ignored the second part, which was less than fun, but noble, nonetheless.
“Felix understands discretion better than most. Stop being an ass. We don’t have much time. I need your help,” Lucien said without scowling or doing anything else Abel would’ve expected from him.
Perhaps in the last fifteen years Lucien matured more than Abel gave him credit for. “With these hunters? Don’t you have an army for that?”
Lucien shared a look with Felix and stood. “My army is smaller than I’d like to admit, and the new additions are too young and inexperienced to go to the frontline—yet. The rest are busy on the border. I don’t have a large enough force to handle this on my own. I need a specialist. You heard the report Oana gave me about the circus the hunters attacked.”
Oana must’ve been the hawk. Abel nodded, and he eyed the empty walls—their ancient tapestries gone. Had Lucien sold them or stored them? Abel didn’t ask. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Find them, if they’re still alive,” Lucien said, hardly a whisper. It was loud enough in the still room.
Abel let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Wait. Did you call me because all your other assassin friends were busy, or because you thought I’d have some softhearted affinity with a circus because of how we parted? In case you didn’t notice, I forged my own rather lucrative path without those greedy bastards. If they were captured and killed by hunters, they probably deserved it.”
Lucien frowned, and he flinched just enough that Abel noticed—a slight twitch around his unearthly eyes.
Felix took a step forward. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the shifters in the kingdom, more like Lucien himself, in modern clothing that spoke of his time in human lands. His shirt was neatly tucked into his pants and the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Of course, he had to be taller than Abel and broader as well. Not that either feat was really difficult, considering.
“Arno is a powerful warlord in the borderlands who’s been gathering shifters for his experiments. He caught us last winter and we ran into a lion—a rabid lion. His reach extended all the way to Interpol, and we have no idea what his end game is, but he’s hurting shifters. His efforts directly affect Wallachia. I don’t know about your past or the circus, and honestly, I don’t care. Lucien called you because he thought you were the best wolf for the job. And because he doesn’t want me to do it.”
That made Abel really laugh, the kind that started in his belly and burst out of his mouth. “Of course you would call your cousin to do something you don’t want your sweet mate to do. Who cares if I have to face down—how many hunters are we talking about here—ten? Twenty? A hundred?”
“No,” Lucien growled and glared at Felix. “Not because I don’t want Felix to get hurt. Well, that’s part of it, but not the whole reason. I contacted you because you have a certain set of skills no one else I know possesses. All the other assassins I’ve come across are too messy or loud for this purpose. If I needed someone who could infiltrate them as an equal, I’d want Felix. But I need a shadow who can move in without being seen. You, Abel. You’re the only one.”
“Flattery would have worked on me ten years ago. Now I need a larger incentive. And don’t insult me by offering money I know you don’t have. I want something only you can give me,” Abel said and showed his fangs. “I want my family’s house back. The one that belonged to my mother.”
Abel waited for Lucien to squirm.
He didn’t.
Lucien met his eyes. “I have several strongholds I need you to break into. Kill the hunters you find. Interrogate them for any information first so you can find out what Arno’s plans are and how to beat him. That bastard has picked my army to bones, and I can’t go myself. Not after what happened the last time I went on a jaunt. But if you get rid of him, I’ll retract your banishment. I’ll return your family home to you, and you can come home without fear of persecution. Is that good enough?”
Abel felt a crack in his smile, and his heart had to be beating louder than he wanted it to. How the fuck did Lucien figure that’s what Abel really wanted? Even worse, how was he right?
Even more annoying.
“He’s really good enough to break into Arno’s prisons on his own?” Felix asked, arms crossed over his chest.
Abel tossed one of his blades in the air and caught it. “Oh, omega. I’m the best. Right, Lucy?”
Lucien nodded. “I wouldn’t have summoned you if you weren’t. What do you say?”
A little hesitation would buy Abel more bargaining power, but sentimentality won over that, which—yes—also annoying.
“Fine, but if you’re going to un-banish me, I also want my old position back. And I want the freedom to come and go as I please—no strings.”
Lucien’s eyes sparkled. “As you wish.”

* * *

Belgrade in the spring was uglier than Abel remembered. Unlike shifter territory that was overflowing with blooming trees and meadows of colorful wildflowers and all sorts of green living things, this human city was block after block of concrete and asphalt—gray and brown and distinctly uninteresting.
The people who lived there were just as gray, their eyes pinched against the cold air and the perpetual clouds that crowded the sky and hid the warmth of the sun.
The warehouse Abel watched reeked of silver, wolf’s bane and blood—a charming combination that stung Abel’s nose even from a distance. A chain-link fence lined with razor wire along the top surrounded the place as well, along with a sign that warmed of electric shock.
It’s as if they weren’t even trying to protect the place.
Or they didn’t expect someone like Abel to find it.
Part of him wanted to do the job now instead of waiting for nightfall just to give himself a challenge. But doing the job right was better than messing up and ruining the good name he’d built for himself.
Inside the fence, stunted weeds grew out of the wet brown dirt that stretched between the crumbling concrete drive. Boot prints and tire tracks covered it, which meant there had been activity there recently.
Abel sniffed the air, and caught the vague hint of shifters, a jumble of smells he couldn’t differentiate between at that distance.
Lucien’s intel was right. The hunters brought shifters here. If it was the shifters from the circus, Abel would find out soon enough.
He currently crouched across the street in one of the empty concrete high-rises that had been abandoned after the fall of the Soviets and the last war that tore through the region. It wasn’t what he’d call pleasant (the walls were covered in poorly done graffiti and piss), but it was a place to get out of the elements and case his target before he launched his attack.
Night couldn’t come soon enough.
By the time Yue’s light rose behind the clouds, Abel was dressed in his finest assassination attire (black pants and a black long sleeved shirt with plenty of places for his knives) and itching to get down there and go.
He spent a good five minutes debating whether or not he should wear the bells—the ones that gave his victims a chance to fight back—and decided he would. They hung from a necklace and the cuffs on his wrists with one tied into the hair behind his ear. That was his favorite—the one Catina gave him when she took Abel as her student.
The last three days in Belgrade told him what he needed to know. There were exactly twenty-four hunters working in shifts of twelve each. They changed positions at twenty-one hundred hours, which is when the large rolling garage door that admitted the trucks opened.
That made it the perfect time for his attack.
Abel was outfitted with an arsenal of throwing knives in his belt and his boots, plus the stilettos tucked into his thigh holsters – all freshly sharpened.
All of them deadly.
Abel, however, didn’t carry any firearms. Guns were so uncivilized. Loud. Obnoxious. They didn’t require nearly as much skill to handle well. Any idiot could pick up and fire a gun. It was a far too easy, impersonal, way to kill someone.
And death shouldn’t be impersonal. It was the largest moment of most people’s lives.
Throwing a knife—learning the precise way in which to cut and kill—that was a skill worth having.
A dying skill, unfortunately.
Then again, most of Abel’s skills were falling out of favor. A shame, really. He’d spent so much time perfecting them, and there were so few people left who could appreciate it.
Yue was fresh this time of the month, and her thin sliver of light called to the alpha tucked inside him. His skin tingled with anticipation as he crept down the street soundlessly, pressed into the darkness. He moved so carefully his bells didn’t make the slightest sound.
It took ages to get right, but now it was second nature to move like that.
The electrified gate loomed above him, and Abel’s fingers flexed in their insulated black leather gloves. The soles of his boots were rubber and thicker than he usually liked, but he’d make due to avoid frying himself. He kept to the corner of the yard, where the spotlights didn’t reach, and bounded up the fence in four quick strides. The strong sting of wolf’s bane clogged his senses, and he held his breath as he reached the top.
With his hands placed on either edge of the razor wire, Abel vaulted over the fence and landed, unharmed, on the other side.
His bells tingled in the cool night air for a moment before they stilled. The sound was gentle and sweet—the opposite of what faced those hunters.
He slipped through the yard like a shadow and pushed himself against the wall. The thick concrete block and the utter lack of windows muffled any sounds from inside the warehouse.
Abel waited.
At twenty-one hours, when the truck was supposed to pull in with twelve hunters to relieve the other shift, it didn’t show.
Maybe his watch was fast.
Abel waited another five minutes.
By twenty after, he bared his teeth at the darkness.
What the hell was going on? Did the hunters have some sort of special meeting on Friday nights? Were they late? Perhaps he should have cased the warehouse for an entire week, but that would’ve taken too long.
And bored Abel to tears.
The last twenty-two minutes nearly did him in already.
He could either retreat and try again or get in another way.
Putting it off wasn’t going to save those damn shifters trapped inside.
Too bad he didn’t have a layout of the building, but that would be too much to ask from Lucien’s spies, whoever they were. If they could get in, they’d have freed the shifters and interrogated the hunters on their own.
The building had three exits, one being the garage door Abel currently crouched next to. It wasn’t going to open easily, so he’d have to try one of the other doors.
No one moved beyond the fence. This side of Belgrade was full of half-crumbling buildings that the city didn’t have the money or desire to repair, hence they fell into ruin. The only people out here at this time of night were fellow criminals.
Abel smiled at that thought.
The first door he came to looked like it was rarely used. The weeds grew thickly at the base of the little step and there were no footprints in the dirt.
Abel moved toward the last door, at the other side of the warehouse. This one had a little flickering light above it and a well-worn path surrounded by cigarette butts.
Just what he needed.
The clouds overhead broke and Yue’s pale light smiled down on him. She was the goddess many wolves worshiped, their lady of the moon. Abel wasn’t as devout a believer as some (like his cousin), nor was he an unbeliever. It was only that Yue hadn’t done anything for him in the last thirty-one years to warrant much devotion, especially after he’d given up his entire birthright.
The least she could do was drop a mate in his lap. Only, mates were a rare phenomenon, it seemed. True mates, at least. Mates that Yue bound together by an undeniable bond. Then a mate would probably be a heavy burden that weighed him down. Made him think of someone besides himself, which wasn’t something he’d done in a very long time.
Not since before he’d been banished.
The door creaked open, and two hunters stepped out to smoke. A man and a woman, and they both stood with their backs to him, completely unaware of the alpha crouched in wait.
The first kill was far too easy. The knife sliced through the hunter’s back and struck his lung (a tough shot considering the ribs were in the way and tended to deflect blades, even those thrown by shifters with increased strength). The man gasped for air and fell to his knees, coughing up blood.
The woman pulled a nasty scowl, and freed her gun from her holster. She fired six shots into the darkness around Abel. Silver burned his nose, and he rolled to avoid them.
Then he stood, another throwing knife gripped between his middle and pointer finger.
The woman chattered frantically into a walkie-talkie at her shoulder. Nothing but stunted screams and static answered her.
“What happened in there?” she cried.
Abel threw the knife.
“Report—” The hunter stopped midsentence as the blade hit her throat. Her next few words came out a gurgled mess as she toppled onto the ground, a cigarette still burning in her fingers.
Abel carefully swiped the blades clean and listened to the sound inside the warehouse—shouts accompanied by a great roar. A few hunters scurried around inside, the sound of their screams clear in the still air.
He yanked the door open. His bells rang louder now, fiercely jingling around the cries of the hunters in the wide open room. The warehouse had no interior walls. It was open and lined with cages and tables, but they were all empty.
The scent of blood overwhelmed everything else—even the silver and wolf’s bane.
That was a bad sign.
A quick headcount came up with only five hunters—the other five were missing or. . . .
Abel spotted the source of blood.
It was tucked into the darkness, but his vision was better than a simple human. He made out the twist of limbs, the skin ripped and not shorn, and the fresh blood that dripped from them.
That’s what happened to the other hunters.
Who the fuck got here before him?
There were only two lights in the space, and they shone like spotlights on the scene at hand. The remaining hunters, their weapons raised, stood above a body writhing on the floor.
A wolf.
The only other shifter alive in the whole place, by the look of it.
For whatever reason, they hadn’t opened fire on him yet.
Suddenly, a strong hand shot out and grabbed one of the hunters by the leg. The bone snapped under the grip, and the hunter crumpled to the ground.
Abel tossed three smaller knives and pulled out his twin stilettos before the remaining hunters had the chance to open fire.
Abel grinned, showing the bright points of his canines.

It was always more fun when things didn’t go as planned.


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