The shift is not like in the books. It isn’t neat or magical. It’s violent. Bones crack and stretch under skin that ripples and darkens. Muscles swell, veins rising like ropes. His jaw elongates slightly, teeth flashing white. His eyes go fully gold, burning like molten metal. The sound he makes is a low bellow that vibrates through my bones.
The crowd erupts. Some cheer. Some go silent.
The men holding me freeze.
Rafe moves.
It’s not a charge. It’s a sweep, a flash of motion too fast for his size, and the first man goes flying across the ring, slamming into the barricade with a sound like a door being kicked off its hinges. Another reaches for a weapon but Rafe’s already there, grabbing him by the collar, lifting him clear off the ground, and throwing him hard enough that the floor shudders under my feet.
I can’t look away. Every part of me wants to. My training screams at me to find a corner, shield my head, do something, but my eyes stay locked on him. On the way his body moves—massive now, shoulders broad enough to block the light, horns curving from his skull like they’ve always been there, not new but revealed.
He’s not Rafe. Not entirely. He’s the bull they’ve been chanting for. And yet—when his gaze snaps back to me, there’s a flicker inside it that’s still him.
He clears the ring in seconds. Men scatter, some bolting for the doors, some too stunned to move. The snake-tattoo mantries to stand his ground, fumbling for a pistol tucked at his waist. Rafe hits him before he can aim. The gun skitters across the floor. The man drops, groaning, but Rafe doesn’t finish him. He just stands over him, chest heaving, breath loud and heavy like an engine running hot.
He turns toward me.
The crowd is gone now, a rush of feet and shouts fading into the echoing space beyond the lights. It’s just us.
He steps closer, horns lowering slightly as his breathing slows. The gold in his eyes dims, replaced by something darker, something I’ve seen before when he sits across from me and tries not to say what’s in his head.
“Kay,” he says. Or maybe it’s my name. His voice is ragged but it’s his voice.
I try to move but my knees buckle. The adrenaline hits all at once, a tidal wave that leaves me trembling. My vision narrows. His hand—huge now, rough—reaches for me, not to grab, but to steady.
The last thing I feel is heat radiating off him, a kind of heat that isn’t just body temperature but something older, heavier, something that makes every nerve in my palm flare when it touches mine.
Then the floor tilts.
And everything goes dark.
11
RAFE
Her weight in my arms is both nothing and everything. She’s light—lighter than the weapons I’ve carried, lighter than the bodies I’ve dragged—but the moment I lift her from the floor of the ring, it feels like I’m holding the whole world. The lights above are still too bright, buzzing with the static of a fight that ended too fast, and the scent of fear lingers in the air like smoke. My chest heaves. My hands shake once before I force them steady.
She’s out cold, head resting against my shoulder, hair brushing my jaw. I can hear her heartbeat, soft and steady under her ribs, and it’s the only sound in the room that matters. The others are gone. Mateo’s men fled when they saw what I’d become, and for now, no one’s stopping me. I walk out of the ring without looking back, boots echoing on the concrete, horns fading as my body pulls itself back to human form, skin aching where it stretched.
By the time I reach the van bay, I’m almost myself again. My breath is ragged. My arms are slick with sweat. My mind is clear, in the way a battlefield clears after the noise ends. I slip through the side exit, into the night.
Seville is quiet at this hour, the streets washed in pale streetlight, the scent of orange blossoms faint even here near the docks. I know where I’m going. There’s an old villa half an hour outside the city, crumbling but still standing, built before any of us were born and forgotten by everyone who might care. I’d used it once before, long ago, when I needed a place to bleed where no one could find me. It’ll be safe for now.
I steal a car from the alley, one of Mateo’s old sedans with the keys tucked in the visor. I ease her into the passenger seat, tucking a ragged blanket under her head, and drive. The road unwinds like a ribbon under the tires. My hands grip the wheel too hard. Every few minutes, I glance at her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, making sure she’s still with me.
When we reach the villa, dawn is a pale smear across the horizon, turning the olive trees to silver ghosts. The villa’s bones are strong but its skin is cracked—paint peeling, shutters broken, a courtyard full of weeds. The fountain in the center hasn’t held water in decades, but the stone benches still stand, patient and cold. I park under the old archway, kill the engine, and carry her inside.
The interior smells like dust and old rain. My boots crunch on debris as I make my way to the back room where I used to sleep. The bedframe is gone, but there’s a mattress on the floor, wrapped in a tarp. I lay her down gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her eyelids flutter but don’t open.
I sit back against the wall, knees bent, breathing through my teeth, waiting. My body aches from the shift, muscles bruised from holding so much weight inside for so long. But none of that matters. Not compared to this.
When she stirs at last, it’s slow. Her eyes move beneath her lids before they open, wide and dazed, taking in the cracked ceiling, the faded fresco of some long-forgotten saint paintedabove the doorway. She blinks, sits up halfway, and then winces as the movement catches up to her.
“You’re safe,” I say quietly, my voice lower than usual, rough but steady.
Her gaze finds mine, and for a second she looks like she’s still in the ring, like she’s seeing horns instead of my face. Then her breath steadies. “Where are we?”
“An old villa. Nobody’ll find us here.”
