And I intended to kill him. Planned his death. Turned grief into hate. Made his execution the cornerstone of my healing.
Now the thought of him hurt makes my wolf claw inside me. The thought of him alone in that cell makes my chest ache. The thought of never seeing him again—
“Nadia.” Viktor’s voice pulls me out of the spiral. Firm. Patient. I know he’s seeing the indecision in my face.
I turn to look at him. Try to school my expression into something professional. Something that doesn’t scream the confusion swirling within me.
His eyes narrow slightly. Reading me. Drawing conclusions I don’t want him to draw.
“Your escort is waiting,” he says. “Go now.” Not a request.
I obey because I have no other choice. Because my legs won’t carry me toward detention even though that’s where every instinct says I should go. Because I’m not Aurora anymore, and Ihave no authority here, and following Jericho would just get me restrained, too.
So I walk with the operative through familiar halls while my wolf howls in loss and my chest aches, and the truth settles heavy and inescapable.
Before, I was furious they’d grant him sanctuary.
Now I’m terrified they won’t.
Mate,my wolf growls, prowling beneath my skin.
Mate.
The word takes hold as she strains to break free. And I’m left reeling as I start to understand my reaction.
Oh no.
Oh God, no.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
Chapter 17
Jericho
The guards don’t speak during the walk to detention. Just grip my arms and move me through corridors carved into the mountainside. I’m being frog-marched like a convict. One of them jerks my shoulder when I don’t turn fast enough at a junction.
I don’t react. Learned decades ago that showing pain or resistance only makes it worse. Better to be stone. Better to let them think I’m not a threat.
We descend three levels. The air gets colder, the lighting harsher. Security checkpoints every fifty feet—reinforced doors, biometric scanners, guards stationed at intervals. Level three: maximum security. I suspect this is where they keep the ones who won’t see release.
Criminals. Traitors. Enemies of the Aurora Collective.
I’m one or all of those things, depending on perspective.
The processing room is small and clinical. White walls. Metal table. Medical equipment. Two guards wait inside.
“Strip,” one says. Flat. Professional.
I comply. Remove my clothes systematically. They search each piece before tossing it aside. Then me—thorough, invasive, dehumanizing. Standard procedure for hostile intake. I’ve conducted enough of these myself to know the routine.
Medical scan next. They check for concealed weapons, implants, trackers. Find nothing because there’s nothing to find. The cuffs already block my fire. Now they’re verifying I’m not a walking bomb.
“Suppression field test,” the lead guard says.
They activate it. The field hits like a wave—not painful, just oppressive. My dragon recoils, pressed down by invisible weight. I can’t reach my fire at all. Can’t shift. Can’t access anything that makes me what I am.
