He stops moving.
Another operative materializes from the haze, weapon rising. I pivot low, using momentum and ice beneath his boots against him. He goes down hard. Skull meets rock with a sound I don’t need to interpret.
The fight lasts seconds. Efficient. Instinctive. Controlled panic translated into motion.
Secondary explosions bloom orange against gathering darkness as fuel lines catch. Heat presses against my face. The air tastes like burning plastic and copper.
I move toward the transport van.
Smoke hangs thick. The vehicle’s back half is crushed against the cliff wall, metal folded like paper. Glass glitters across snow. One Aurora guard lies dead nearby, half-shifted—scales visible along his throat, eyes frozen open and gold.
Through the jagged hole torn in the transport’s hull, I see movement.
Jericho Allon.
He’s kneeling in the wreckage, hands pressed against an escort’s chest—trying to stem bleeding that’s already pooled black beneath them. His face is turned away, shoulders tight with focus.
Then something detonates.
Close. Too close.
The shockwave hits me sideways. I’m airborne for half a second before the ground rushes up. Impact drives the breath from my lungs. Vision blacks at the edges, sound compressing to a single high whine.
I blink. Force my eyes to focus.
Silence collapses inward—that unnatural vacuum that follows violence. The ringing in my ears fades slowly, replaced by the soft tick of snow hitting hot metal. Somewhere distant, fire crackles. Wind moans through shattered glass.
I push upright, legs shaking.
The escort Allon was trying to save is gone—just blood and torn fabric marking where he’d been. The blast must have—
Movement in the wreckage.
Jericho Allon half-crawls through the door frame and collapses into the snow. Blood trails from his temple, already freezing into dark ice against his skin. His breathing comes shallow, uneven.
I shift without deciding to.
Bone and muscle snap back into human alignment. Smoke stings my throat. My fingers slip on bark as I steady myself, bare feet numb against frozen ground.
Thoughts come mechanically, stripped of emotion:Assess. Eliminate. End it.
I crouch beside him.
His face is turned toward me—unconscious or close to it. Dark hair matted with blood and snow. A cut above his eyebrow still weeping red.
The heat slams back into me.
Wrong. All wrong. My skin flushes hot despite the cold, and beneath my ribs, something twists hard enough to steal my breath. The wolf stirs—not aggressive. Something else. Something I don’t understand and don’t want.
I shove it down.
I force my hand forward, fingers finding his wrist. The pulse beats strong and steady beneath my touch, and the heat flares brighter. Spreads up my arm like fever.
I jerk back.
What the hell?
Around us, fire reflects off blackened snow. Orange light dances across Syndicate insignia visible on a nearby corpse—the twin serpents coiled around a sword. The same symbol that decorated the reports I’d read about my mate’s death.
