I ripped the door off its hinges. The wood splintered, the locks tearing free from the frame with a shriek of tortured metal, the whole door crashing inward. And there, across the room, illuminated by the gray light filtering through barred windows?—
Easton.
His hands were on Aster's arms, his body pressed against hers, his mouth close to her ear, whispering something that made her flinch, made her cringe away, made tears stream down her face. She was backed against the wall, trapped, his body a cage around hers, his wrong scent suffocating her.
She was bruised. Her lip was split and swollen, crusted with dried blood. Her cheek was purple and mottled, the imprint of a hand visible beneath the discoloration. Her clothes were torn, her hair tangled, her body trembling in his grip.
Her eyes — her pale green eyes found mine through the chaos, through the fear, through the nightmare she'd been living.
"Sawyer." My name on her lips, broken and beautiful, like a prayer finally answered, like hope given voice.
Everything went white. I don't remember crossing the room. Don't remember the sound I made — something between a roar and a scream, inhuman and terrible, the death cry of something that had nothing left to lose. Don't remember Easton's face changing from smug satisfaction to dawning horror as he realized what was coming for him, what had finally arrived to collect the debt he owed.
I remember the feel of his body under my hands. The crack of his arm breaking when I wrenched it away from her, the angle wrong and getting wronger, bone grinding against bone as I twisted it past any natural limit. The wet crunch of his nose shattering under my fist, cartilage collapsing, blood spraying hot across my knuckles, across my face. The wheeze of his breath when my knee connected with his ribs, once, twice, three times, feeling them give way one by one like sticks snapping.
He was screaming. Begging. His wrong scent flooding the room with fear, with pain, with the knowledge that he was going to die, that nothing he said would stop it, that the monster he'd created had finally come home.
Good.
I hit him again. And again. My hands were slick with blood — his blood, finally his blood, payment for every bruise on her skin — and each impact sent a surge of vicious satisfaction through me. This was the man who had threatened her. Who had touched her. Who had stolen her from us and put those marks on her skin and that fear in her eyes. And now he was breaking under my fists, crumbling like the weak, pathetic thing he'd always been beneath the expensive suits and polished smiles.
"Sawyer." Aster's voice, small and scared, somewhere behind me. "Sawyer, stop."
I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. There was nothing left in me but rage, but the need to destroy the thing that had hurt her, to breakit so completely it could never threaten her again, could never even think about her again.
"SAWYER." Reid's voice thundered through the room, crashing over me like a wave, thick with Alpha command, heavy with authority that pressed against my skull. "STOP."
My fist froze mid-swing, trembling, Easton's bloody face beneath me, his eyes swollen shut, his breath bubbling wetly through his broken nose, blood pooling on the expensive carpet beneath us. Reid's command pressed against my mind, trying to break through the feral haze, but I snarled against it, fighting, not ready to be done, not when he was still breathing, not when he could still heal and come back and try again?—
"Look at her." Reid's voice again, closer now, softer, rough with emotion I rarely heard from him. "Sawyer. Look at Aster."
I turned my head, and the rage cracked. She was huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming down her bruised face. But she wasn't looking at Easton's broken body. She was looking at me. At my bloody hands, my bared teeth, the violence that had consumed me, the monster that lived inside my skin.
She was afraid.
Of me.
The feral haze shattered like glass, and I stumbled back from Easton's body, my chest heaving, my hands shaking, horror washing through me in icy waves. What had I done? What had I become? I'd wanted to protect her, and instead I'd terrified her, shown her the darkness I'd spent years trying to bury, the thing that made me dangerous, that made me wrong?—
"Sawyer." Her voice again, but different now — not scared, not of me, just shattered and desperate and reaching. "Sawyer, please."
She was holding out her arms. Reaching for me. Wanting me, even covered in blood, even with the violence still trembling in my limbs, even knowing what I was.
I crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into my arms. She broke against me, sobs wracking her body, her fingers clawing at my shirt like she was trying to climb inside me, like she couldn't get close enough, like my bloody, violent embrace was the only safe place left in the world. I held her so tight I was probably hurting her, but I couldn't let go, couldn't stop the words pouring out of my mouth in a broken litany.
"I've got you." The words scraped out of my ruined throat, rough and raw and desperate. "I've got you. You're safe. You're safe now. I'm here. I've got you."
"He was going to—" She couldn't finish, her voice breaking into sobs, her whole body shaking, her tears hot against my neck. "He said he would kill you. All of you. He was going to use me to?—"
"Shh." I pressed my lips to her hair, her forehead, her temple, leaving smears of blood I didn't care about, breathing in her scent until it drowned out everything else, until the world was nothing but lilacs and rain and her. "He's never going to touch you again. No one's ever going to touch you again. I won't let them. I'll kill anyone who tries."
"Sawyer." Reid's hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and grounding, his cedar scent wrapping around us both like a shield. I could feel Kol nearby too, his sunshine scent dim with fear and relief, his presence a warm flicker at the edge of my awareness. "We need to move. Nolan's on his way — she needs medical attention. And the sheriff?—"
"Fuck the sheriff." The growl rumbled through my chest, making Aster shiver in my arms. "He's Easton's cousin. He'll try to protect him."
"Not anymore." Reid's voice was grim but satisfied. "Tom Bradley and six other ranchers are already on the phone with the state police. Easton's been sabotaging operations across the county — we have proof now, evidence, testimony. His own men are turning on him. He's done, Sawyer. It's over."
Over. The word didn't make sense. How could it be over when Aster was still shaking in my arms, when her blood was still drying on her face, when the bruises on her skin would take weeks to fade, when the memories would take longer?
