Callum stands his ground, and as he tilts his head, the faintest glint of amusement—or warning—flashes in his gaze.
“He doesn’t want you here,” he says evenly.
Vanessa halts, her gaze narrowing, her smile shifting from amusement to anger.
“Because she’s here?”
Callum smirks, unbothered, and her confidence falters.
“Well, maybe I’ll just take her out of the equation,” she says, her tongue darting across her fangs as she moves with predatory intent.
Vanessa draws her blade with a snarl, her fury barely contained. She lunges with deadly speed, and I flinch, instinct curling my hands into fists. The hum of my magic pulses just beneath my skin, ready to break free. But Callum is quicker. His twin swords clash with hers in a screech of metal.
She’s fast—her strikes relentless, each one meant to wound, to punish. But Callum is something else entirely. He doesn't just react—he calculates. He shifts with precision, parries with one blade while the other presses in, dominating the space between them.
She pivots, ducking low, aiming for his side. His sword catches hers, dragging it wide. Then—an opening.
Callum turns sharply. One sword cuts beneath her guard while the other drives up with lethal precision, knocking her blade from her hands. It lands with a dull thud in the dirt. She stumbles back, chest heaving, eyes blazing with rage. Callum doesn’t press. Doesn’t speak. He just watches her, silent and composed. The corner of his mouth lifts. A smirk, cold and confident.
He likes this.
With unhurried precision, he sheathes both swords—not out of mercy, but invitation. His hand lifts, fingers curling in a slow, deliberate gesture.
Vanessa takes it.
She dives for her blade, her body hitting the ground with a thud as her fingers close tightly around the hilt in desperation. But beforeher blade can lift, his hand snaps around her wrist, his grip like iron, and with a brutal twist, he tears the weapon from her grasp, sending it clattering uselessly across the dirt.
She barely has time to draw breath before his other hand is on her throat, and in one seamless motion, he drives her backward, slamming her against the nearest tree with enough force to shake the leaves loose from the branches above. His body pins hers to the tree as his fingers dig into her throat, cutting off air, bruising flesh, until her breath falters beneath his grip.
“Touch her, and I’ll rip your throat out,” he hisses.
This isn’t a threat—it’s apromise.
Despite his sincerity, Vanessa laughs—a loud, confident sound, tinged with something seductive.
“Oh, come on, Callum,” she purrs, trailing her long, pointed nails across his chest. “You know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
The words hit me like a slap, and all the anger, all the rage that had started to rise earlier, surges once again. First Casper, and now Callum. My stomach twists in fury. But he releases her with a casual shove, letting her drop to the ground, disgust etched across his face.
“I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on this godsforsaken earth.”
Without another glance at her, he takes my arm gently, guiding me toward Zander.
Callum gently helps me mount the stallion, his gaze locking onto mine, dark and searching, as if silently begging me to understand something he can’t vocalize. He murmurs low into Zander’s ear, words lost to the early light of dawn, sending him forward into a full gallop toward the camp. I glance back, pulse quickening as Callum’s focus sharpens on Vanessa. Her smile spreads, the dagger in her hand gleaming with deadly intent.
Zander’s hooves slam against the earth, each step a harsh reminder of the distance growing between me and Callum. The wind cuts across my face, tangling my hair, but it does nothing to quiet the storm raging in my mind. My grip on the reins tightens until my knuckles ache, fear twisting inside me—not for myself, but for him.
I glance back, my stomach sinking. Each second that Zander carries me farther feels like a betrayal. Helplessness gnaws at me—I’m no good to him running away, but I have no choice. As camp comes into view, Zander slows, but the panic inside me doesn’t ease. Jason steps out of our tent, his expression hardening as he takes in my disheveled state.
“What’s going on?” he demands, his eyes scanning the camp.
I barely glance at him, my focus shifting toward Casper’s tent, urgency clawing at me like a beast waiting to be unleashed.
I dismount Zander and sprint to the tent, shoving the flap aside. Inside, Casper lies asleep, his breathing slow and even, the steady rise and fall of his chest a quiet rhythm in the stillness. I can see more of his tattoos wind over his bare skin, dark and intricate, telling stories I haven’t yet heard. His hair falls carelessly over his forehead, soft and innocent in his slumber, a stark contrast to the fierce man he becomes when awake.
Without thinking, my trembling hand reaches out to shake him awake. The moment my fingers brush his skin, a jolt of fear shoots through me as his eyes snap open—black as the void, wild and primal.
Before I can process it, he moves—a blur of motion that’s faster than I can follow. His fangs catch the dim light as he rises, and suddenly his hand is around my throat. I’m slammed against the post, the air rushing from my lungs as his grip tightens. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as I struggle to catch my breath.
