His sleeve shifts.
Metal glints.
Cuffs.
Everything in me detonates into ice.
“Don’t,” I say.
My voice is low. Flat. Wrong.
The lead operative freezes.
Kimberly looks down. Sees the cuffs sliding out of his sleeve like a magician’s trick.
Her breath catches.
“Tur,” she says softly. Not scared. Alert. Ready.
I’m already moving.
My body doesn’t sprint. Itteleports.
My hand slams into the man’s chest, driving him back into the door hard enough to spiderweb the glass. The cuffs clatter to the floor.
The other three reach for weapons.
I bare my teeth.
“Everybody,” I say, voice shaking with restraint, “keep your hands where I can see them or I’m going to turn this restaurant back into a crime scene.”
One of them mutters, “Shit.”
Kimberly steps in front of me.
Not shielding me.
Shieldingthem.
“Tur,” she says, firm now. “Don’t.”
“They were going to take you,” I snap.
“Yes,” she says. “And you are not going to slaughter four idiots in my dining room.”
The lead operative coughs, blood on his lip. “Ms. Fierson, this is an authorized retrieval.”
“Ofme?” she says sharply. “Under what statute?”
“Alliance Oversight Act?—”
“Bullshit,” she cuts in. “That act requires a tribunal warrant and jurisdictional handoff.”
His jaw tightens.
My claws extend.
Just a millimeter.
