“You’ll wake up mortal enough,” I mutter. The words come out rough.
I straighten and make a slow circuit through the wreckage.
All Aurora guards dead. The Syndicate operatives I didn’t kill are gone—fled or incinerated, hard to tell which. Snow already crusts over blood trails, a cold erasure that will hide this within hours.
I stop beside the lead vehicle.
The driver is still strapped in, neck bent at an angle that tells me everything. Young. Maybe twenty-three. Aurora insignia on his jacket collar catching firelight.
Poor kid.
I realize with sudden clarity: the Syndicate attack wasn’t meant to capture. It was meant to destroy. No witnesses. No intelligence leaked. Just eliminate the problem and let Aurora wonder what happened to their precious defector.
I turn back toward my prisoner.
He hasn’t moved. Blood still seeps from the gash at his temple. His breathing stays shallow but regular, chest rising and falling beneath torn jacket fabric.
I kneel beside him again. Check his pulse one more time—telling myself it’s protocol, not compulsion. Still strong.
Heat flares the moment my skin touches his.
I pull away fast, wiping my hand against my thigh like I can scrub the sensation off.
Snow begins to fall heavier, fat flakes that stick to his eyelashes, his hair, the hollow of his throat.
A storm is coming. The kind that traps you wherever you are when it hits.
I look toward the horizon where clouds mass dark and threatening, swallowing the last of the twilight.
Then back down at the man who killed my mate.
Leave him here. Cut his throat. Let him die in the snow.
But I can’t. My hand hovers over his chest—not violence, not comfort. Just… frozen. Caught between what I want to do and what I can’t seem to do, for some reason.
“I’m not done with you yet,” I whisper. It’s not mercy. Not concern. Just the stubborn refusal to let this end before I understand what the hell is happening to me.
I straighten and look around me. The body beside us remains unmoving. It’s pretty clear he’s not going to need the heavy coat he’s wearing. Reaching down, I grit my teeth as I unbutton it, flip him over, and tug it off his limp arms and shoulders. My lip curls at the smell of sweat and cordite, but I slip it on and button it up to my chin. It reaches mid-calf and doesn’t offer as much warmth as I’d like, but I can’t drag Allon out of here if I shift, and there’s no way I’m going to be naked when he wakes up.
So don’t let him wake up…
I give a shake of my head, dismissing the thought. When I do it, it won’t be like that.
I take another look around.
The burning convoy casts orange light across the snow. Wind picks up, carrying the stench of smoke and death downslope, where someone will eventually find this. But not tonight. Maybe not for days if the storm hits hard enough.
Unless the Syndicate sends more operatives to see what happened to their team. Which seems likely.
Got to get out of here.
Grimacing as I retrieve a rifle and a couple of blades from the fallen operatives, I grab Allon under the arms and drag him toward the tree line.
He’s heavy—dead weight and muscle and dragon bone density add to the fact that the man is huge. My feet slip twice before I find traction, the rifle bumping across my back, where I’ve slung it. Sweat freezes against my skin despite the exertion and the unnatural heat still crawling beneath my ribs.
Behind us, flames climb higher. Ahead, the forest waits dark and silent.
And between us, suppression cuffs gleam dull silver in the firelight—a leash I’ll need when he wakes up.
