I drop Vance. He slides down the tree, coughing, rubbing his neck. He looks up at me, horror dawning in his eyes.
"Mate?" he rasps. "A Duval? You mated a Duval?"
"I didn't choose it," I say, backing up, my hands shaking. The secret is out. The dam has broken. "But the bond is there, and I’m doing my fucking best resisting it. You give her to Matilde, you’re killing your Alpha."
Vance stares at me. Then he looks at the others. The disgust on their faces is plain. In the bayou, mating outside the species is taboo. Mating with the enemy? It’s treason.
"The Elders won't stand for this," Vance whispers. "A vampire queen in the Pack? It starts a war, Jax. A civil war."
"Let the Elders talk," I say, turning my back on them. "I handle my own business. The law is the law: Mate comes first."
"Jax!" Vance calls after me. "You’re compromising everything for her!"
I ignore them. I plunge back into the brush, putting distance between me and the judgment in their eyes.
I need to hit something.
I tear through the undergrowth, moving fast, letting the branches whip my face. The frustration is a chain in my gut. They don't understand. They see a name. They see a bloodline. They don't smell the vanilla and brass. They don't feel the pull that feels like a fishhook set deep in my heart.
A mechanical buzz cuts through the sound of the rain.
I stop.
Above the tree line, a drone hovers. It’s sleek, black, with a red thermal eye scanning the ground. Gregor’s tech.
It spots me. The red light locks onto my heat signature.
"Found you," I growl.
I take off running, leading it west, away from the cabin. But I can't outrun a drone on two legs. Not in this mud. And I can't let it track me back to the Pack.
I need speed. I need violence.
I yank my belt buckle open, fingers fumbling in my rage. I kick my boots off, shoving them under a log. I strip my jeans and shirt in seconds, leaving them in a pile.
I close my eyes and let go of the leash.
Shift.
The pain hits like a freight train. It starts in the spine, a cracking, grinding realignment of vertebrae. My jaw dislocates and elongates, popping loudly. Fur bursts through my skin, thick and black as the swamp night. My muscles tear and reknit, denser, stronger.
I fall forward onto my hands—onto my paws.
I yank my head back and open my jaws, a silent scream of agony that turns into a growl.
The world shifts. Colors fade to grey and motion. The unique smell of the swamp explodes—I can smell the worms in the mud, the ozone in the clouds, the battery acid of the drone above.
I am massive. I am the apex.
I launch myself forward.
I don't run; I flow. My paws strike the earth with barely a sound, four legs driving me forward with a speed no human can match. I am a shadow moving through shadows.
The drone whirs, adjusting its altitude, trying to keep the heat signature in frame.
Chase me, machine.
I tear west, toward the deep marsh. I leap over cypress knees that would break a man’s ankle. I slide under fallen logs without slowing down. The mud doesn't suck at me; I move over it.
