I’m skipping Fun Fiction Friday today to focus on the arrival of Rolf of the Night Bloode! The vampire is up to his neck in danger, intrigue, and romance with a valkyrie not sure if she wants to kiss him or take off his head.
Here’s a snippet:
Sylvara tightened her grip on her ax and forced the lightning rage inside herself to settle. “If I really wanted you dead, you’d be nothing but ash. And if I’d been able to kill you with any of my previous strikes, then I’d know you were no better than an upir.” The upir tribe was often made fun of by others for being the weakest of the vampire nation, though it was all relative. They were still difficult to kill one on one.
Rolf lost his smile. “Take that back.”
“You there,” a light elf said as he closed the distance between them. “What are you—”
“Hold on, Legolas. I’m having a conversation,” Rolf barked. “You, valkyrie. Take. That. Back.”
“That you’re as weak as an upir? Or that you’re afraid of Blood Drinker, my ax?” she added that one just for fun.
The deep red in his eyes enchanted her. Rolf was good looking no matter what he wore, blood, entrails, or regular skin. But when angered, he was smoking hot.
Unfortunately, he’d only pretended to be angry, because he smiled at her fast enough and chuckled. “Sticks and stones, sweetness.”
Then, to her shock, he stole her ax and studied it, moving faster than she could blink.
“Give it back, you asshole.”
“Hey, non-fae. What are you doing here?” another of the light fae asked. The pair next to him snarled threats. Typical light elf theatrics. By now, dark elves would have been stabbing.
“This is really fine workmanship,” Rolf mused, ignoring the fae while studying her weapon that whined to be rid of him.
The ax often hummed in her mind, and now it hummed a desperate need to be away from the psycho holding it.
“Give it back,” she snapped and struck at him with her fist.
He dodged, not looking her way, holding the ax closer as he traced the runes along the blade. He gave it a few swings, and the fae advancing on them held their positions.
“Isn’t that Rolf?” one of them asked another.
“Oh, hell.”
Sylvara didn’t want to play anymore. Just as quickly, she forgot about treating Rolf like an ally. The short fuse of her temper once again got the best of her.
She launched herself at him, knocking him onto his back.
“Oomph.”
She must have surprised him, because she didn’t think he’d have let himself go down so easily otherwise. Not letting him recover, she punched him in the gut before striking his face. A spurt of his bloode hit her as she broke his nose. Satisfaction bloomed, and her ax sang a victory song.
Intent on doing him harm, she let the hymn of conquest fill her, her soul lighting up with an energy preceding ultimate victory.
“Get back,” one of the elves yelled to the others.
Before she could call the lightning, Rolf knocked her off him and followed up with a tackle that stole the breath from her lungs. He rolled them over until he was on top.
The incredulity turning to rage on his face would have any rational being sobering up and taking heed.
Instead, she laughed, flush with delight over getting the best of him. “Go ahead and kill me. But you’ll never take away the fact I beat you!” She laughed some more, thrilled with herself.
Until the bastard kissed her.