Blood Match (Blood Type 2)

But Beckham had never loved Penelope. How could he love a cold heartless bitch like Penelope? If she hadn’t sold them out, then none of this would have happened. Beckham wouldn’t be dead.

This was her fault.

Reyna remembered how to move her feet. She ignored Harrington completely. He was nothing to her anymore. Consequences no longer mattered. Harrington would get his due next.

She walked right up to Penelope where she kneeled in the cold. How could someone so beautiful do such horrible things? How could she so freely give up her soul to the devil?

Reyna had fought and fought and fought. Even at the risk of losing everything she had still told Harrington no. She had still done the right thing. When all odds were turned against her, she had stuck it out. She had endured. She had fucking persisted.

Penelope lost one thing. One thing in her entitled, pretentious, sheltered life and she’d crumbled. And worse, she had lost something that didn’t even belong to her.

Reyna’s fist tangled in Penelope’s dark hair.

Dark hair.

Reyna hated it.

That they had the same color hair.

That Beckham had preferred brunettes.

“What are you doing?” Penelope shrieked, as Reyna wrenched her head backward.

Reyna raised the gun and pressed it against Penelope’s head. Penny was shaking like a leaf. Terrified despite her now superior strength and speed. She hadn’t quite gotten used to her new reflexes and she was in shock…in her own way.

“This is your fault,” Reyna snarled.

“Reyna, please,” Penelope cried. Tears ran in rivulets down her face. “Please, I didn’t know! I would never have done anything to harm Beckham. Please, please, please.”

“Reyna, allow Penelope her time to grieve,” Harrington said as if he were consoling a child having a tantrum instead of a woman who had just lost the love of her life.

“You are a coward,” Reyna spat in Penelope’s face.

Then she moved the gun and shot Penelope in the heart. The jealous empty vessel that had ruined everything.

Penelope flew backward, blood seeping from the wound. She screamed in pain and shock and revulsion. It wouldn’t kill her. Reyna knew that. But it would keep her ass on the ground and get her the fuck away from Beckham.

Harrington was laughing in the distance, but Reyna had already fallen to her knees. She had to hold Beckham. She had to fix this. He couldn’t be dead. Beckham would never leave her. Never.

She could save him. She could bring him back. She was his soul mate. She hadn’t even gotten to tell him that she was his blood match, his once-in-a-lifetime, his soul mate. If their blood was perfectly matched, then maybe it could work a miracle.

Reyna did the only thing that she could think of. She opened his mouth and used one of his sharp fangs to open up her wrist. She vaguely heard a hiss and a sharp inhale. She was sure the sweet smell of her blood was permeating the air, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care.

Harrington put his hand on her arm, and she swatted him away. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

“You’re only harming yourself and wasting precious blood. Beckham isn’t coming back. No matter what you do.”

She ignored his words. And forced the blood out of her veins and into his mouth. The pain was nothing to what the pain of losing Beckham would be if this didn’t work.

“Enough,” Harrington barked.

This was her only hope. She had nothing left to give. She sank forward, resting her forehead on his chest. Tears wouldn’t come. Just exhaustion and numbness. She wanted to lie down beside him in the cold and never wake up again. But she couldn’t give up.

There would never be another Beckham Anderson.

“Come on, Becks,” she screamed, shaking his body. “Please. You can’t do this to me. You can’t leave me!”

But nothing happened.

Her blood, while unique and very, very rare, wasn’t anything special. It didn’t have magical healing properties. Their blood match wasn’t saving him. Her chest was a black hole where her heart had been.

“Fix him!” she screamed at Harrington.

“He can’t be fixed, Reyna.”

“How could you do this?” she demanded. But her eyes were on Beckham as she tried to rouse him. As she tried to do anything to save him.

Harrington was wrong. What did he know? He was a monster. A villain. A sadistic vampire who had tried to take away the best thing in her life. He’d played the game like a chessboard, and she’d walked right into his trap.

But he couldn’t take Beckham.

Her once-in-a-lifetime.

Blood match.

Soul mate.

If her soul mate was dead, there would be hell to pay.