Chapter Fifty– Seven:
The air in the subterranean vault was stagnant, thick with the iron-heavy scent of the blood-drips hitting the silk-lined coffin. Amelia was still fighting for her life, her body twisting in a frantic, desperate dance to break free from Vireon's crushing grip. Every muscle in her werewolf frame was coiled, her lungs burning for an oxygen supply that was being systematically cut off. She raked her razor-sharp claws across the hand he used to hold her neck, striking with the full, bone-shattering force of her lineage. Yet, her efforts were useless. The charcoal-black tuxedo sleeve, woven from nothing but a solidified bloody aura, didn't even fray; it was as if her claws were sliding off polished diamond or ancient dragon scales. There was no damage, no blood, and no sign of weakness from the Blood Lord.
