Downstairs, there’s a shift in the air, a tension I can feel in my skin before I hear the heavy tread of boots on the hardwood. Darius appears in the hallway like he’s already been expecting this, broad shoulders filling the space, eyes sharp and scanning.
“What is it?” I whisper, moving toward him.
“Stay here,” he says without even looking at me.
“Not happening.”
His jaw works like he’s chewing through the argument he wants to make, but his attention is already sliding toward the front door. “Tessa?—”
“No. You’re not facing whatever this is alone.” My voice is quiet but firm, the kind that leaves no room for him to think I’ll obey just because he orders it.
Headlights flare again, and this time I see them—four black SUVs lined up like a blockade. The engines cut off. The silence that follows feels like the air before a storm.
And then a voice calls out.
“Crane! Let’s not make this harder than it has to be!”
Holden.
Even without seeing him, I can picture that smirk, the way he stands like he’s already won.
Darius mutters something under his breath—too low for me to catch—and then he’s moving toward the door. I’m right behind him, poker from the fireplace clutched tight in my hands.
The front windows rattle when the first boot slams into the door. The second kick splinters the frame. By the third, it gives way, and cold night air rushes in along with three men in tactical gear, their movements sharp, disciplined—no hesitation.
Darius meets the first one head-on, steel flashing in his hand before I even register him drawing it. His blade slams against the merc’s short sword with a metallic crack that echoes through the entryway. The second merc swings his rifle toward me, and I move before I can think—bringing the poker up in both hands and slamming it hard into the side of the weapon. The barrel jerks wide, the shot going into the ceiling instead of my chest.
I pivot, driving the poker into his knee, and he buckles with a sharp curse. He reaches for me, but I wrench free and bring the iron down on his shoulder so hard my arms sting from the impact. He drops the rifle, and I kick it away toward the wall.
The third man angles in low, trying to get past me, a wicked-looking combat knife in his grip. I thrust the poker forward, catching him in the ribs, but he grabs hold of it, yanking me closer. His eyes are cold, detached, like I’m nothing more than an obstacle to be removed. He raises the knife.
And then Darius is there.
One massive hand clamps around the merc’s wrist, twisting until bone pops and the blade clatters to the floor. He shoves the man backward, sending him crashing into the hallway table hard enough to splinter the wood.
Boots slam against the porch again. More of them coming.
Holden steps into the broken doorway, framed by moonlight, his expression infuriatingly calm. “You know why I’m here, Crane. Don’t make me drag you out.”
“You’re not leaving with him,” I snap before I can stop myself.
His gaze flicks to me, a slow grin spreading. “Well. You must be the reason he’s making bad choices lately.”
Darius moves, positioning himself in front of me, shoulders squared, every line of his body screaming restraint he’s barely holding onto. “You shouldn’t have come here, Holden.”
“I brought enough to make sure I can leave,” Holden says lightly, and with a flick of his hand, more men surge forward. Five this time, each armed with either tranq rifles or curved hunting blades that gleam in the porch light.
The air changes.
I feel it before I see it—heat rolling off Darius in a sudden wave, his breathing deepening, the gold in his eyes burning brighter, sharper. The sound that comes from his chest is low and resonant, almost too low to be called a growl, but it makes the mercs closest to him falter for a fraction of a second.
“Darius…” I start, but the rest of the words die in my throat.
Because the shift has already begun.
It’s not the full change, not yet, but his stance alters, predatory and fluid, his movements quicker, more precise. The last bit of human in his expression slips away, leaving only the wolf staring out through his eyes. His fingers curl around the hilt of his blade like it’s an extension of himself, but I know in this state, it’s not the weapon they should fear—it’s him.
The nearest merc lunges, but Darius catches him mid-stride, twisting him in the air before slamming him down on the hardwood with enough force to make the boards groan. The others hesitate for only a heartbeat. Then they rush in.
