Every life he saves is paid for in fragments of his own.
But he doesn’t stop.
Hewon’tstop.
Hecan’tstop while his brothers are bleeding.
While the battlefield shifts, Crave and I watch the carnage together at the entry to the clubhouse.
Viktor hasn’t moved from his position in the center of the battlefield, directing his forces with hand signals and commands I can’t hear but feel through the tactical precision of the assault.
He’s not just attacking.
He’stesting.
Probing our defenses.
Identifying weaknesses.
Preparing for the real push that will come when he’s mapped every advantage and neutralized every threat.
“He’s good,” Crave admits, and something resembling grudging respect colors his voice. “Centuries of warfare. He knows how to break a fortified position.”
“So do we,” I counter, as I watch another wave of vampires crash against Grizz’s position. “And we’ve got something he doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Each other.” I turn to face him, light pulsing beneath my skin in rhythm with my racing heart. “He’s got an army. We’ve got a family. There’s a difference.”
Something steady settles into me, cutting cleanly through the chaos outside. It isn’t loud or forceful, just a solid warmth that anchors my spine and stills the tremor in my hands. When I glance at him, his gaze is already on me, fierce and unyielding, the barest hint of a nod acknowledging what I’ve done, what I am.
The approval in his eyes is unmistakable.
Not relief.
Not hope.
Certainty.
The kind that sharpens resolve instead of soothing it, that says, ‘this is the line that holds.’That my choice, my control, is exactly what will tip the balance between everything we lose, and everything we manage to keep. And somehow, standing here in the middle of carnage and fire, that quiet faith burns warmer than anything else.
Then Viktor moves.
Finally.
Inevitably.
He doesn’t run or blur with vampire speed. He simply decides to be closer, and reality accommodates him. One moment, he’s a hundred yards away. The next, he’s standing thirty feet from the clubhouse entrance, looking at us with a smile that promises pain and finality.
“Draven!” His voice carries easily over the sounds of battle, amplified by vampire lungs and Dark Magic. “Come and face me. Or are you hiding behind your pet witch now?”
The air around him tightens, heat spiking so fast it prickles my skin. Crave’s jaw locks, his shoulders drawing rigid while something violent and immense slams against the limits of his body, again and again, a beast throwing itself into iron bars. Power snarls beneath his skin, desperate and directionless, his Bloodfire flaring hot enough that it bleeds into the space between us.
I step closer without thinking, my hand tightening in his sleeve. A silent plea rides the contact, sharp and urgent.Not like this. Not the way he wants.
Crave drags in a breath he doesn’t need, his fingers flexing, and I know he’s aching to close them around Viktor’s throat. The fury doesn’t vanish, but it buckles, forced inward by sheer will. The Binding holds, unyielding, and the frustration of it carves deeper than the rage itself.
He doesn’t look at me, but the tension shifts, a fraction looser, control reasserted at a cost.
