The side window of the transport van is open—just a crack, enough for air circulation. And there, sitting motionless beside an escort, is Jericho Allon. Iknowit’s him.
Not cuffed. Not restrained. Just… still.
His back is straight despite the jolt of the rough road. His gaze fixed forward like he’s carved from stone. There’s no fear in the way he holds himself, no tension. Just the bearing of a man who looks like he thinks he owns the world he lives in.
And his eyes—
They glow faintly gold before he blinks, the light swallowed by shadow.
He shifts slightly as the van navigates a pothole, and the movement is controlled, economical. Like a man who’s learned to conserve energy in case he might need it for survival.
He’s big. Dwarfing the guards sitting with him and making the interior of the vehicle look cramped. But I don’t get a sense of clumsiness from him. Everything about him is taut, controlled.
Something tears through me. Not fear. I don’t give a fuck how big he is. This is something else.
Every sense sharpens until the world goes knife-edged and too bright. I can hear his heartbeat from here, slow and steady, a counterpoint to the engine’s rumble. I can smell him through diesel and snow and distance: smoke and iron and something underneath that tastes like winter storms.
Heat spreads fast.
Wrong. Impossible, considering I’m crouching practically naked in the ice.
But it crawls under my skin anyway, starting low in my belly and rising, flushing my chest, tightening my throat until I have to plant a hand beside me just to stay grounded.
For one breathless moment, I can’t move. Can’t make sense of this. Can onlyfeelthe pull threading through my ribs.
What the fuck?
I crouch in the snow, fingers flexing, every nerve screaming contradictions:kill him… go to him… run.
The sharp taste of adrenaline floods my mouth. There’s a sound in my skull like radio static, high and sharp, and my heartbeat syncs with the rhythm of his—matching, mirroring, impossible.
The transport van rounds the bend and disappears down the slope.
The sound fades.
I stay frozen, shaking, hand buried wrist-deep in snow that should burn cold but doesn’t register at all.
My chest heaves. My vision swims.
You found him.
The wolf snarls in approval. But something’s wrong. The hunt doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like vertigo. Like standing at a cliff edge, drawn forward and terrified at once.
I force my breath to slow. Count backwards from ten. Anchor myself in the cold, the pain, the solid reality of stone beneath my knees.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
My pulse settles. The heat recedes to a dull ache.
Seven. Six. Five.
Thought returns. Logic. The anger that’s kept me alive.
Four. Three. Two.
And then guilt roars back so hard it nearly doubles me over.
Chance.
