I looked at the crowd. They'd better be keeping close watch because I'm going to show them stuff that their primal brain couldn't hope to comprehend.
"You all better keep your ears open. I'm going to prove that my husband isn't as cold-blooded as you think." I said and then forced myself to look down at the bodies.
The first one lay face-up, chest caved in, blood dark and still. I crouched carefully, steeling myself against the heat of fear and revulsion.
Solin crouched at the other side, her fingers hovered over the wound on the first male's body—We'll call him Beast A, and the other guy will be Beast B—and she examined it.
Beast A lay on his back, eyes widened as if taken unaware, and a dark, fatal hole punctured his chest. The wound was clean, precise, made in a single, deliberate strike
It was made by hand. And I could assume whose hand did it.
I forced a breath through my shaking chest and then looked at Damar's hand.
