The man nodded desperately, eyes rolling with terror, but Exile could smell the adrenaline, the strangled hope. He squeezed until the face went slack, then let the body fall. The third male had made it halfway over the counter before Exile caught up, dragging him back to the ground with an almost playful motion. He knelt beside the shaking heap, leaning close enough to taste the fear. "She's mine," he said, low and guttural. "She will never be yours."
The man sobbed once, then Exile opened his throat. He stood, surveying the carnage, and felt nothing. No remorse, no pity, not even a flicker of satisfaction. Only the cold, consuming need to protect what belonged to him.
He wiped his blade again, slow and deliberate, and licked the blood from the edge. The copper tang settled on his tongue, grounding him. He closed his eyes, conjuring Felicity's face, every line and freckle burned into memory. The town was a graveyard, and he was its avenging spirit.
