Shivs
I tracked Marcus by his scent—bitter sweat and penny-bright blood—and by the hateful reek of his cologne, a chemical weapon in its own right. My ears rang with the aftershock of the sound cannon, but it was almost a relief: the pain steadied my aim, slowed the shake in my hands. The wolf in me wanted to sprint, to end it with one clean strike, but the human part wanted him to see it coming.
Through the tears in my eyes, I saw him. He had a gun pressed to Carrie’s head, but his grip was wrong—he was a numbers man, not a killer. He kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes gone wide, pupils shivering in the light.
He spotted me before I spoke. “You can barely stand,” he spat, voice high. “Your wolf won’t save you this time.”
I bared my teeth. “You always thought you were the apex, Marcus. But you never met a real predator.”
He cocked the gun. “We’ll see about that.”
Carrie kept her face blank, but I saw her wrists twisting, working at the zip. She knew how to play her part.
“Marcus,” she said, tone soft, almost gentle. “You don’t understand what Stillwater really is. It’s not just profit margins and market share. It’s people who’d die for each other.”
He sneered, the mask cracking. “That’s exactly why I’m here. Your people are too stupid to adapt. I’m the only one ruthless enough to save the company. No more cowboys, no more tradition, just pure, efficient profit.”
He aimed at me, shaking.
“Maybe that’s true,” Carrie said, “but you’re not getting out of here with anything but a toe tag.”
She winked at me. I felt the pulse of the mate bond, hot and sharp, a last warning.
I leapt. The shot was deafening—he fired wild, panic in every pull. The first bullet hit the wall, the second punched through the crook of my arm, clean through muscle. I didn’t stop. The third round struck the crate beside me, showering us in splinters.
Evelyn Hart stepped out of the smoke, hands up. “Marcus, this has gone too far—” The fourth bullet caught her in the shoulder, spun her halfway around. She crumpled, gasping, the front of her suit blooming red.
Marcus didn’t look at her. He pointed the gun at my head, finger white on the trigger.
And that’s when Carrie broke free, the chair clattering. She lunged between us, and the next bullet punched through her shoulder, just above the heart.
The sound she made was nothing—no scream, just a grunt. Her shirt went instantly dark, blood soaking through like water on a bar rag. I saw the life draining out of her, saw the terror in her eyes. The wolf in me howled, but the man in me felt everything break.
The Royal Bastards crashed through the side door, led by Vin and Canon, both guns drawn, both faces locked in a snarl. Moab barreled through behind, scooping up Evelyn and dragging her behind a stack of barrels for cover.
Vin got to Marcus first, punching him so hard the man dropped the gun and folded like wet cardboard. Canon zip-tied his wrists, then slammed him face-first into the floor for good measure.
I dropped to my knees beside Carrie. The world shrank to her and me, and the blood that kept coming, and the hot, frantic smell of death on her skin. She’d been shot.
She coughed, spitting red onto my hands. “Do it now,” she said, voice raw. “Complete the bond. I don’t want to lose our chance.”
I didn’t care who was watching. I tore open her shirt, exposing the bullet hole, the ruined skin. I pressed my mouth to the wound and licked the blood, tasting her, taking her into me. I felt the mate mark throb, the old magic sparking under my tongue.
She shuddered. “Hurry, Shivs.”
The wound kept bleeding, but her hand found my head, forced me closer. I bit my wrist hard and pressed it to her lips, letting my own blood mix with hers. She drank, even as her body failed, even as the world burned around us.
Behind me, the RBMC cleaned up the mess. They didn’t speak. They knew what this meant.
Carrie looked up, eyes glassy. “Don’t let go,” she whispered.
“Never,” I said, and kissed her, blood on blood, until the pain blurred away and there was nothing but us, fused in the dark.
I felt the change begin—the old wild thing coming alive in her, the bond knitting itself deeper, forever. Even if it killed me, I would not let go. The marking was complete. The knotting was complete. And now, the blood transfer was complete.
Carrie
Two weeks after the warehouse siege, the bourbon heiress mansion stood hollowed out and silent, as if waiting for the next headline. The news cycle moved on—regulators, lawyers, even the vultures from Marcus‘s camp—but the mansion held its own kind of court, judging every footstep and every plan I tried to make. The world outside kept spinning, but inside, I couldn’t stop replaying those last hours: blood, sweat, and the way Shivs had looked at me like I was both prey and salvation.
