Chapter 50 CHAPTER 50

Chapter 50 CHAPTER 50
Dmitri's POV

I moved.

The first assassin died before he could even raise his weapon. I was on him in the space between heartbeats, my claws finding his throat and tearing through flesh and bone with savage efficiency. Blood sprayed across my face, hot and metallic, and the beast inside me roared with satisfaction.

But I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

The second assassin came at me from the side, his sword aimed at my ribs. I caught his wrist, twisted, and felt the satisfying crack of bone. His scream was cut short as I drove my other hand into his chest, my claws finding his heart and squeezing. The organ burst like an overripe fruit, and I watched the light fade from his eyes with cold satisfaction.

The third tried to flee. I caught him before he'd taken three steps, my claws hooking into his spine and pulling. The wet crunch of vertebrae separating was music to my ears.

Around me, the battle raged. My guards had engaged the remaining assassins, the sounds of steel and screams filling the gorge. But I was in my own world. A world of blood and fury and vengeance.

The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from my face even as I spilled more. The mud beneath my feet had turned to sludge, thick and crimson, sucking at my boots with each step. Lightning illuminated the carnage in stark, frozen moments—a severed arm here, a disemboweled body there, the flash of steel and the spray of arterial blood.

I was a force of nature. A storm of claws and teeth and primal rage. I moved with a speed that defied comprehension, my half-shifted form a terrifying hybrid of man and beast. My body was larger, my muscles more defined, my senses heightened to an almost painful degree.

I could hear everything—the pounding of hearts, the whisper of steel through the air, the desperate prayers of dying men. I could smell everything—the copper tang of blood, the acrid scent of fear, the sweet perfume of death.

And I loved it.

The beast inside me was feasting on the violence, growing stronger with each kill. The red haze was creeping in at the edges of my vision, threatening to consume me entirely. I could feel my humanity slipping away, feel the madness I'd kept contained for weeks erupting with volcanic force.

More, the beast demanded. More blood. More death. More.

I obliged.

An assassin came at me with twin daggers, his movements quick and precise. I caught his wrist, twisted, and used his own momentum to drive the blade into his throat. He gurgled, his eyes wide with shock, and I watched him crumple to the ground.

Another tried to flank me, his sword aimed at my back. I sensed him before he struck, turning with a snarl that was barely human. My claws caught his blade, sparks flying as steel met bone, and I pushed. The sword shattered, and I drove the broken shard through his eye socket.

Two more. Three. Four.

They kept coming, and I kept killing. Each death fed the beast, pushed me further into the abyss. The voices in my head grew louder, more insistent, drowning out everything else.

Kill. Tear. Destroy. More. MORE!

I was sinking. Drowning. The red haze was everywhere now, consuming my vision, my thoughts, my very soul. The part of me that was still human—still Dmitri—was screaming, trying to pull me back.

But the beast was too powerful. The madness was too sweet.

“Let go,” the beast urged. “Let go and become what you were always meant to be. Become DEATH.”

I looked up, and through the red haze, I saw my guards watching me. Their eyes were wide with something I hadn't seen in a long time.

Fear.

Not the fear of battle, not the fear of death. Something deeper. Something more primal.

They were afraid of me.

Even Kastiel, who had seen me at my worst, who had pulled me back from the edge more times than I could count, was staring at me with something that looked almost like horror. His hand was on his sword, not to fight the assassins, but to defend himself if I turned on him.

I couldn't blame him.

I looked like a monster. Felt like a monster.

Was a monster.

Then the assassins shifted.

A guttural howl tore through the air—not from me, but from the treeline. I watched as five of the remaining assassins dropped to their hands and knees, their bodies convulsing, their forms expanding. Fur rippled across their skin. Bones cracked and reformed. Their faces elongated into muzzles, their hands became paws, their teeth became fangs.

Wolves. They were wolves.

Not Lycans—mere werewolves. But still dangerous, still deadly, still capable of tearing through a man's throat with savage efficiency.

They emerged from the shadows in full shift, their eyes gleaming with animal hunger, their bodies low to the ground, their snarls echoing through the gorge.

They thought this would give them an advantage. Thought their wolf forms would make them faster, stronger, harder to kill.

They were wrong.

I met them head-on, my half-shifted form still towering over their wolf shapes. The first wolf lunged at my throat, and I caught it mid-air, my claws hooking into its chest and tearing. Its body split open like a gutted fish, entrails spilling across the mud.

The second came at me from the left, its jaws snapping at my leg. I kicked it hard enough to send it flying, then was on it before it could rise, my claws finding its skull and crushing.

The third, fourth, and fifth circled me, their movements coordinated, their eyes filled with the cold intelligence of hunters who had taken down larger prey before.

They darted in, nipping at my flanks, trying to find an opening. I let them, playing their game for a moment, savoring their false confidence.

Then I moved.

I caught the third by the throat, my claws closing around its windpipe and squeezing. The sound of its spine snapping was satisfyingly loud.

The fourth tried to retreat, but I was faster. I grabbed its hind leg and pulled, feeling the joint dislocate with a wet pop. It howled in pain, and I silenced it with a claw through its eye.

The fifth lunged at my back, its jaws aiming for the base of my skull. I sensed it coming and spun, catching it mid-air, my claws driving into its belly and tearing upward. Its entrails spilled across my arm, steaming in the rain.

Three of my guards had fallen to the wolves, but their sacrifice had bought us the time we needed. The remaining assassins were falling back, their morale shattered by the sight of their companions being torn apart.

But I wasn't finished. Not even close.