His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes lesser beings tremble. He's before me in three strides, big hands cupping my face. "What happened?" The question rumbles from his chest like distant artillery.
I open my mouth, but no sound emerges—just a pathetic gasp of air.
Rhyland doesn't wait for answers. His arm sweeps behind my knees, lifting me against his chest as he carries me into the living room. The couch dips beneath his weight as he positions me in his lap, one hand anchoring me to him while the other tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze to meet his.
"Her pulse is racing like she's seen a fucking ghost," Emily snaps, pacing the hardwood. "Which isn't far off, considering—"
"She's in shock," Bryn interrupts, cutting through the chaos.
Rhyland's jaw locks, a muscle ticking beneath his stubble. "Tell me. Now."
The command isn't directed at me but at everyone else—the protective alpha gathering intelligence to eliminate a threat.
"Lilith," Emily spats. "That designer-label corpse ambushed us at Ray's." Her combat boots scorch the hardwood as she paces. "Bitch is fucking day-walking now, courtesy of premium angel plasma."
A soft whimper escapes Seraphina from her place on the couch. Lucian already there, holding her.
"Hey, hey, baby girl," he murmurs, his usual razor-sharp sarcasm melting into something gentle as he cups her face. "This clusterfuck isn't on your divine tab."
Seraphina's shoulders curl inward, tears tracking down her cheeks. "The drugs she gave me—everything was foggy—it makes perfect sense she would—"
Lucian pulls her against his chest, silencing her spiral with a protective embrace. The tendons in his neck stand out like steel cables as his jaw locks—the room temperature spikes with his barely contained rage.
Erik hovers over Bryn, silver eyes scanning her with clinical precision. His fingers ghost over her arms, checking for injuries with the detachment of a battlefield medic—except for the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"The tík did not touch me, silfrhár," Bryn growls, bristling at the implication she couldn't handle herself. "Save your concern."
Erik's inspection doesn't falter. "She must never discover what you are." The statement falls between them like a sworn oath.
Rhyland's strong arms lockaround me like steel bands, his rhythmic rocking at odds with the lethal tension in his muscles. The world feels distant, underwater, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. Each breath catches in my throat like I'm trying to inhale molasses, my chest tight and burning.
"What. Did. She. Do?" Each word drops from Rhyland's lips like arctic shards, the temperature around us plummeting as his power leaks into the air. His fingers dig into my hip, the possessive grip anchoring me as darkness crackles at the edges of his aura.
"Adrian," Bryn announces. "The fallen scholar lives."
On the way here, while I was busy auditioning for a panic attack commercial—still winning that role, by the way—Emily filled Bryn and Sable in on the Adrian saga. Because my trauma bingo card needed just one more stamp to win the grand prize of complete emotional collapse.
Rhyland turns to stone beneath me. His arms constrict until my ribs protest."That's impossible." Each word drops like an executioner's ax. "I watched Azrael tear out his heart."
"The Soul Stone," Sable whispers. "She used it when she opened the rift and dragged him back."
"Wait—holy shit." Lucian freezes mid-gesture, his face draining of color as the realization hits like a sledgehammer. "Adrian?" The name comes out strangled. "That'swho she pulled? That sanctimonious voice when he wrecked my car taking Seraphina. When Sable got blown to bits? When that bomb—" His fingers curl into fists, veins standing out along his forearms. "That scholastic little shit—
He runs a hand through his golden hair, manic energy radiating off him in waves. "I mean, seriously? Heart extraction is just a minor inconvenience now? What's next—the Titanic just needed some flex tape? Fucking hell, I need a drink. Or ten. Actually, fuck this—I need an entire liquor store."
The edges of my vision blur and pins and needles prickle across my cheeks. Each breath comes faster than the last, too shallow and too quick, like I'm trying to inhale through a coffee stirrer.
Rhyland's hand slides to cup my cheek, the rough calluses catching against my skin as he forces my gaze to meet his. Ocean-blue eyes lock onto mine with that alpha intensity that usually turns my knees to jelly.
"Angel." His voice drops tothat commanding rumble that vibrates through my bones. His thumb traces my lower lip, which has gone numb. "We'll handle this—all of it." His other hand splays possessively across my ribcage, monitoring my rapid breathing. "But right now, I need you to fucking breathe before you pass out in my lap."
"She's g-got him under h-her c-command." The words scrape past my constricted throat. "He n-needs help."
Rhyland freezes, his muscles locking down so tight I can feel the tremors of restraint. A tsunami of memories crashes through our bond—Adrian's betrayal, the pain, the blood. But underneath that, a grudging understanding pulses. After all, my man and his brothers know intimately what dancing on Lilith's puppet strings means.
"Oh fuck, that noise sideways." Lucian's face twists into something savage despite Seraphina still tucked against him. "I don't care if he's got more mind control than a Marvel villain's origin story—that backstabbing bookworm can rot in whatever necromantic happy meal box Lilith dragged him out of, Princess."
The world slowly rights itself as feeling creeps back into my tingling lips. I blink hard, convinced I'm still oxygen-deprived because there's no way I'm seeing what I'm seeing. But the telltale crackle of demonic energy gives him away—Brax, shapeshifted into a perfect replica of Will Ferrell inElf, complete with yellow tights, curly-toed shoes, and a jingling hat that makes him look absolutely ridiculous—handing me a glass of water.
