Just like any other dead thing.
Sloane’s fear reaches me raw and unguarded, guilt pressing in close behind it. It settles deep, relentless, and I know without asking that she’s blaming herself for the Binding, for my vulnerability, and for making me something that can die.
I did this to him.
Her thoughts echo, sharp as broken glass.
I want to reassure her, to tell her she’s wrong, but the lie won’t form because she’s not wrong. Not entirely. I chose her over my own survival. And I’d do it again. But that doesn’t change the mathematics of what’s coming.
And coming soon.
Viktor’s army. Feral vampires who’ll smell my weakness the moment they get close. Rogue witches whose spells might actually land now. Demon-possessed humans who won’t hesitate to test whether an Original can still bleed out.
And me?
Diminished.
Exposed.
Mortal enough to die.
The clubhouse door swings open, and Rogue walks in, flanked by Scorch and Dread. They’ve been running perimeter sweeps, watching the horizon, counting the minutes until Viktor makes his move. But the moment Rogue’s golden eyes lock on me, his stride slows.
Lycans don’t need explanations. They read bodies. Posture. Scent.
And right now, mine is telling him something is wrong.
“Crave.” His voice drops, all command stripped away, leaving only something raw underneath. “It’s worse than you let on.”
I don’t answer immediately. I don’t need to.
Rogue steps closer, his nostrils flaring, jaw tightening as he bites back a snarl. “Your scent’s off. Thinner. Something’s been carved out of you.”
Scorch’s veins flare brighter, dragon fire reacting instinctively, heat rippling through the room. “How bad is the Binding?” he asks, his voice tight. “They didn’t just dampen you. They gutted you.”
“I’m running on speed and teeth. That’s it.” The words scrape on the way out.
Dread’s presence spikes for half a second, fear pressing in sharp and suffocating before he drags it back under control. The message lands anyway.
This isn’t a theoretical problem.
Rogue exhales slowly through his teeth. “So, this wasn’t about punishment,” he says. “It was about timing.”
“It’s a test,” I reply, forcing steadiness into my voice. “They want to see if Sloane can hold the line in live combat. If she fails…” I don’t finish the sentence.
I don’t have to.
Scorch swears under his breath, heat flaring again. “Ancient cowards. They’re trying to execute you without spilling a drop of their own blood.”
“They’re gambling,” Rogue corrects, eyes still on me. “With your life.”
I meet his gaze. “I’ve been gambling with it for thousands of years, brother.”
His jaw flexes, anger and fear warring behind his eyes.
“This time…” I add quietly, “… the stakes aren’t just mine.”
His eyes hold mine, and the pack bond that exists between us despite our different species pulses through the air. Lycans don’t abandon their alpha. Not when he’s wounded. Not when he’s facing death.
