145- gotham’s deadly executioners

ANTHONY GOTHAM

The Gotham dungeon was dark and cold, smelling faintly of moss and mildew. And blood...so much blood.

The prisoner was surrounded by it, the thick liquid splattered on the rough gray walls like a macabre painting. I was itching to use the wrench in my hand once more, but Michael’s intense blue eyes held me in place.

My brother had been acting off lately, his usual penchant for violence diminished to almost nothing after our confrontation in the foyer.

If he was going to fight me for the throne then he had to put less effort into being a bloody goody-two-shoes.

“Tell me again, Hagrid, what it is your Alpha is doing with these wolves,” I growled, and the overhead fluorescent whizzed dramatically, flickering before resuming its steady hum in the quiet room.

Hagrid Wolfe groaned, turning to face me with his one good eye and struggling weakly against the silver chains wrapped around his thick body and neck.

“You're going to want to think about your answer Wolfe. We're not in