16. Red Rage
RED RAGE
Reign drove with the windows down, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping his phone so hard the screen cracked under his thumb.
He didn't even notice.
The Hellcat tore through Richmond streets, weaving between traffic, the engine roaring like it could feel his rage. The sun was still up—not high anymore, but bright enough that he had to stay in the shadows, had to keep moving, had to avoid direct light.
He was trapped.
Trapped by the daylight. Trapped by Cairo's demands. Trapped by Soreya's fear and Arissa's intelligence and the war closing in on all sides.
"You think I don't know you lying?"
Soreya's voice echoed in his head, sharp and accusing.
"You think I'm stupid, Reign?"
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
"I ain't lying!" he shouted into the empty car. "I'm trying to protect you!"
But she didn't believe him. She'd looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was dangerous.
And maybe she was right.
Reign's phone buzzed in the cupholder. He glanced down.
Sevyn (3:47 PM): SOUTHSIDE WAREHOUSE. NOW. ZAIRE GOT JUMPED. NOCTIS CREW. HE BLEEDING BAD.
Reign's blood went cold.
Then hot.
Then something else entirely—something that made his vision sharpen, made his heart rate spike, made every nerve ending in his body light up with violent intent.
He didn't text back.
He just drove.
The warehouse was off Commerce Road, tucked between abandoned buildings and overgrown lots where nobody asked questions. It was one of the Saint family's old storage spots—drugs, money, weapons, whatever needed to be kept off the books.
Reign pulled up and killed the engine.
The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. He could move in the shade. Could function. But he was still weak, still vulnerable, still burning energy just staying conscious during daylight hours.
He didn't care.
Reign kicked the car door open and moved.
The warehouse door was already busted in, hanging off its hinges. He could hear it before he saw it—the sounds of a fight. Grunts. Impacts. The wet, heavy sound of fists hitting flesh.
And underneath it all, the smell.
Blood.
Fresh. Human. Vampire.
Reign's pupils dilated.
He stepped through the doorway and took in the scene in half a second:
Zaire—one of Sevyn's crew, young vampire, maybe thirty years turned—was on the ground, bleeding from his mouth, his ribs, his neck. His shirt was torn open, exposing deep gashes across his chest. He was trying to get up, but his legs weren't working right.
Standing over him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in all black. Noctis crew. Reign recognized the tattoo on his neck—three overlapping circles, the mark of their family line.
The operative was smiling.
"Yo, Saint boy," the man said, not even looking at Reign. He kicked Zaire in the ribs, and Zaire coughed up blood. "Tell your uncle we coming for everything. After Dark. Smoke & Gold. All them little clubs y'all think you own. We taking it."
Reign didn't respond.
He just walked forward.
Slowly.
The Noctis operative finally looked up, and his smile faltered.
Something in Reign's face made him take a step back.
"Yo, I'm just delivering a message?—"
Reign moved.
Not human speed.
Not even controlled vampire speed.
Pure predatory instinct.
One second he was ten feet away. The next, his hand was around the operative's throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
The man's eyes went wide. He clawed at Reign's arm, gasping, choking.
"You put your hands on my family?" Reign's voice was low, guttural, barely recognizable.
"Man, I?—"
Reign slammed him into the concrete wall so hard the impact cracked the cinderblock. The operative's head snapped back, blood spraying from his nose.
"You come into my city," Reign growled, slamming him again, "put your hands on my people," another slam, "and think you just gonna walk out?"
The operative tried to fight back—threw a punch that would've shattered a human's jaw.
Reign didn't even flinch.
He caught the man's wrist mid-swing and twisted.
The bone snapped with a wet, sickening crack.
The operative screamed.
And something inside Reign broke wide open.
All the control he'd been holding onto—all the restraint, all the careful feeding, all the pretending to be something other than what he was—it shattered.
The monster came out.
Reign's eyes flared—not the subtle amber glow from feeding, but a deep, burning red that lit up the dim warehouse like hellfire. His fangs extended fully, longer and sharper than they'd ever been during a controlled feed. His grip tightened on the operative's throat, claws piercing skin.
"Reign—" Zaire's voice was weak, desperate. "Reign, don't?—"
But Reign wasn't listening.
He pulled the operative close, inhaling the scent of fear and blood and adrenaline, and then he bit.
Not carefully.
Not gently.
Not like the controlled feeds in the VIP bathroom with willing participants who knew what they were signing up for.
This was violence.
Reign's fangs sank into the operative's neck, tearing through muscle and tendon, and the blood hit his tongue like gasoline on a fire. The high slammed into him—stronger than anything he'd ever felt, amplified by rage and adrenaline and the sheer feral need to destroy.
The operative thrashed, screaming, trying to pull away.
Reign held him tighter.
He drank.
And drank.
And drank.
The world narrowed to the taste of blood, the sound of the man's heartbeat slowing, the feeling of power flooding through his veins. He was stronger than he'd ever been. Faster. Sharper. Invincible.
He could feel the operative's life draining away, could feel the exact moment the man's body started to shut down, and he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
This was what he was.
Not a businessman. Not a boyfriend. Not someone trying to be better.
A predator.
A killer.
A monster.
"REIGN!"
Zaire's scream cut through the haze.
"REIGN, STOP! YOU GONNA KILL HIM!"
Reign's eyes snapped open.
He was on the ground now, crouched over the operative's body like an animal over prey. Blood covered his hands, his face, his shirt. The operative was still breathing—barely—but his eyes were rolled back, his body limp.
Reign stared down at him.
At what he'd done.
His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. The high was still there, still coursing through him, but underneath it was something else.
Horror.
He'd almost killed him.
Not in self-defense. Not in a fair fight.
He'd almost murdered him because he was angry.
Because he was hurt.
Because Soreya had looked at him like he was a monster, and some part of him had wanted to prove her right.
"Reign." Zaire's voice was closer now. He'd dragged himself across the floor, one hand pressed to his bleeding ribs. "Reign, you gotta let him go, man. You gotta?—"
Reign dropped the operative like he'd been burned.
The man hit the concrete with a wet thud, gasping, choking on his own blood.
Reign stood up slowly, his legs unsteady.
He looked down at his hands—covered in blood, claws still extended, trembling.
He looked at Zaire—terrified, backing away even though Reign had just saved his life.
He looked at the operative—broken, bleeding, barely alive.
And he realized.
This is what I am.
Not the version he showed Soreya. Not the charming club owner who paid her bills and made her laugh and pretended he was just a man with a complicated job.
This.
A creature that could rip someone apart without thinking. A predator that fed on blood and violence and fear. A monster that lived in the dark because the light would kill him.
Soreya had been right to run.
She'd been right to be scared.
Because this—this—was what he'd been hiding from her for six years.
Reign's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out with shaking, blood-covered hands.
Cairo (4:02 PM): Handle it?
Reign stared at the message.
He looked back at the operative, still breathing but unconscious.
He could finish it. Should finish it, probably. Send a message back to Noctis that the Saint family wasn't playing.
But he couldn't.
Not after what he'd just felt. Not after how close he'd come to losing himself completely.
Reign (4:03 PM): Yeah. Handled.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at Zaire.
"Get him outta here," Reign said quietly. "Drop him somewhere Noctis gonna find him. Let 'em know we ain't the ones."
Zaire nodded, still wary, still watching Reign like he might snap again.
"You good?" Zaire asked carefully.
Reign didn't answer.
He just walked out of the warehouse, back into the fading daylight, and stood there in the shadow of the building.
His hands were still shaking.
His heart was still racing.
The high was fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness, but this time it was worse.
Because now he knew.
He knew what he was capable of.
He knew what Soreya would see if she ever witnessed him like this.
He knew that Cairo was right—loving her made him weak, made him vulnerable, made him dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with vampire politics.
Because if he ever lost control around her the way he'd just lost control in that warehouse?
He'd kill her.
Not on purpose. Not because he wanted to.
But because this was his nature.
And nature didn't care about love.
Reign pulled out his phone and stared at Soreya's contact.
He wanted to call her. Wanted to hear her voice. Wanted to tell her he was sorry for everything—for lying, for disappearing, for being what he was.
But he couldn't.
Not covered in blood.
Not with the taste of violence still on his tongue.
Not when he'd just proven that everything she feared about him was true.
So he got in the Hellcat, started the engine, and drove.
Away from the warehouse.
Away from the vigil.
Away from the version of himself that thought he could be something other than a monster.
By the time the sun finally set, Reign was halfway to Petersburg.
He had a chemist to recruit.
A war to fight.
And a woman to protect from the thing he was becoming.
Even if that meant protecting her from himself.