Glass shattered and spilled everywhere as my father hurled a whiskey decanter against the wall in a fit of anger. Fuck, he was acting like a child.

“I hope you intend to clean that up,” I remarked dryly, cocking an eyebrow at his petulant behavior.

He turned back to me, his face a boiling red mask of fury. “How could you? You stupid fucking child! Seven million dollars! Seven million! Not to mention the fact that you have pissed off a seriously influential man.”

He had been raging on like this for a while now, ever since he’d seen the bloody mess of bodies in my garage and found out Kit had escaped. Thank God. I hoped she was okay; she had looked really scared when she ran from my property with Pierre.

“Do not fucking ignore me!” my father hissed and raised his hand as though to hit me, which I caught in a tight grasp.

“Never raise your hand to me again, old man,” I snapped at him, roughly shoving him backwards by the wrist I had just grabbed. He stumbled at the force of it and looked at me with a little less confidence.

“I think you forget which son you are dealing with here. I will not tolerate your tantrum any longer. You tried pulling a fast one by selling my new acquisition from under me, and it backfired. Now she's in the wind, and there is nothing you will do about it, am I clear?” I curled my lip at him in disgust. There had been a time when my father was the most feared man in the criminal underground. The original Românul. But I knew the truth; that he had let the power drive him temporarily insane. After he’d murdered his own wife and halfway killed his other son, my brother, he had lost his mind, and I was left to pick up the pieces. At only fourteen, I had stepped into the power vacuum he had created when he’d abandoned his empire and bent it to my own will. Now I was in charge, and he had better not forget it.

“You better hope this doesn't come back to bite you on the ass, boy,” my father warned, regaining a bit of his composure.

“Well, if it does, it will be my problem to deal with. Now get the fuck out of my home; you know you aren't welcome here except for appearances.” His jacket hit him in the face when I threw it at him with disrespect.

“You're going to have to get over this pathetic grudge sooner or later, Dragomir,” he sneered, and I knew it was to deliberately antagonize me. Damn, it was working too.

“This pathetic grudge? You murdered my mother.” I ground my teeth together hard, rage boiling up in me like it did every time he picked at this wound. “Not to mention what you did to Andrei. I will never let it go, you vile old prick.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic. That woman wasn't your real mother, and Andrei deserved what he got.” My father's scoffing tone made me see red. How dare he?

“Get. Out,” I hissed, low and dangerous, but the stupid old fool didn't take my warning.

“You know, you've been acting pretty strangely lately, Dragomir. Maybe it's time to pass the reins back to your old man, hey?” He smirked at me, totally oblivious to the tension coiling in me as I just barely held back from ripping his head off.

“I said, get out!” This time my message came out of me in a bellowing roar, startling even me and draining the color from my father's face.

“I'm leaving,” he said, backing toward the door. “Ungrateful, fucking child.”

Fists clenched, I turned to the window, not caring to watch him leave. My anger was still burning hot and seemed to be building more, despite the object of my fury having departed. The desert below me was calm and serene in the morning sunlight, but even that wasn't doing anything to help cool my emotions.

Throwing my glass against the wall to join the already smashed decanter, I stalked back up to my room and ripped off my clothing. Why am I so damn hot? My skin was burning like I was on fire and sweat was rolling down my face, but my mind kept escalating the fury I was feeling towards my father. It was all I could focus on.

Almost thirteen years had passed since it had happened, but the anger I was experiencing made it like it was yesterday. In my memory, the scene was still fresh. I had come home early from school after getting suspended for fighting with another kid. When I walked in, my mother’s screams were echoing through the house. Technically, my father was correct when he constantly reminded me she wasn't biologically my mother; she was Andrei's. But he was only two years younger than me, and given I had never met the woman who had birthed me, she was all I had. And she loved me.

My feet almost slipped from under me as I raced down the stairs to the basement, where I knew I would find them. Father had been “grooming” Andrei for years to be my second in command when we grew up. He was to be my enforcer, and supposedly, in order to give pain, he needed to understand pain. It made me sick, but Father assured me it was the only way.

That day, when I rounded the corner to the torture room in the basement, I wasn't prepared for what I saw. He had never gone this far before. Andrei, my poor little brother, was unconscious and covered head to toe in blood while my Father stood over him clutching a bloody hunting knife. Our mother was on her knees, tears streaming from her bruised face, and I knew she must have tried to intervene and been hit for it.

As I stood there, frozen in shock, my father raised his blade again and swung it down hard towards Andrei's chest. My horrified scream pulled his attention at the last second, making him hesitate. In that moment, my mother dove over her young son's lifeless body, and the momentum of Father's swing drove the long blade straight through her.

She was killed instantly, and in his rage, Father pushed her off and stabbed at Andrei again, pinning him to the floor as the tip of the blade stuck in a crack. I finally found my voice, screaming for the guards we always had around the house, and they dragged father away, leaving me alone with his mess.

Andrei hadn't died that day, but the knife had pierced his chest only an inch from his heart, going all the way through and out the other side. When he’d finally recovered enough from the injuries, he took off. We had barely spoken to one another since then, but our paths still crossed now and then.

Reliving that memory, in such detail, was driving my fury to all new heights, and I dimly noticed the shirt I was holding burst into flames. Why is it so hot in here?

I staggered across my bedroom to the window, throwing it open to get some cool air through my room. My vision was hazing, like I was looking at everything through a sheen of gas, and I could feel the sweat running rivers down my naked skin. Glancing behind me, I could see small fires burning on the carpet where I had just taken steps.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Pain rippled through my body, making me cry out. My muscles bunched and contracted as though I was being electrocuted or torn apart; the pain was indescribable. Staggering over to my mirror, I sucked in a shocked gasp when I saw my reflection. My skin was an angry red color and rippling with what seemed to be scales, appearing and disappearing in patches all over me. The tattoo of a red and gold dragon, clawing its way over my shoulder, seemed to be grinning at me ferociously, but that had to have been my imagination. The tattoo matched one that Andrei had gotten to cover the horrific scars inflicted by our father.

Abruptly, like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, my anger subsided, leaving me with the horrible, sickening feeling of fear. Something was wrong. Someone was in trouble.

Dragă.

Once again somehow, I knew for certain she was in danger, and I needed to help her.

My body exploded in a searing burst of excruciating pain, and I doubled over, convinced I was dying. My last thought before I blacked out was that I needed to reach Kit.