His icy eyes widen, a shock that’s impossible to misinterpret—he doesn’t understand why his fire hasn’t burned me. Hell, I don’t know either, but right now, I don’t give a fuck.
With all the force of my strength, I ram him down onto the ground.
Peyton has dropped to the grass on our left.
She’s rolling…
She’s fucking rolling to beat the flames out of her hair and clothing, and she’s whimpering and crying and sobbing, and I can’t…
I can’t fucking stand it.
Every part of me wants to pulverize Jonah. I want to smash my fist into his face and split his cheek apart. I want to crack his ribs and crush his throat and rip his heart out of his chest. I don’t fucking care about the flames bursting up around his body or the scorching heat that comes with them.
My own flames are more terrible.
In my mind, I’m punching him over and over again, and I’m shouting at him that I’ll fucking kill him because I can’t see anything past the red haze that’s fallen over my vision, and I can’t hear anything above the sound of Peyton’s sobs.
And yet… Even as my mind rages and the horrors of my past make it nearly impossible to stay in control…
I’m aware that I’m not punching him. I’m holding Jonah down, a knee to his chest, a hand around his throat while my body is covered in flames, both his and mine.
But I’m not hitting him.
My other fist is raised, ready.
My arm is shaking. My chest is heaving. My growls are ripping from my throat.
I want to make him hurt. I want to tear him apart.
But I’m not doing it.
And it’s taking… fuckingeverything… not to give in to the rage. All the rage from all the times someone hurt Peyton, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
All that rage clouding my mind and pushing,pushingat me.
It’s all I can do to hold it back.
Somewhere in my mind, I’m aware that Slade is fighting Vanguard, trying to get past him—he should be able to get past him, but somehow, he hasn’t been able to yet, and I can’t fathom why.
At the edge of my vision, I’m conscious of a swarm of flying creatures screaming toward us. They’re female figures that I know for certain aren’t Peyton’s sisters because I’ve seen this kind of creature before. It was in the pit at the Academy.
Fucking harpies.
On her first day at the Academy, Peyton fought and killed one of them. An impossible feat. So unlikely that I didn’t believe at first that she’d done it.
Ten harpies soar toward us, and it’s clear they’re aiming directly for Peyton. Why her, specifically, I don’t have time to wonder.
Their bodies are covered in feathers, from their ankles to their stomachs and across their breasts, while their faces areweirdly doll-like. Their feathers can cut through flesh, and so can their talons.
Behind them, three more women fly, streaking after the harpies, and these women, they’re clearly angry as fuck, their brows drawn down, their teeth visibly gritted even from the distance still between us.
They’re dressed in assassin suits like Peyton’s, their appearance so similar to each other’s that they could be identical triplets except for the color of their hair: black, gold, and crimson. The whips at their hips and the snakes visible in their hair tell me that they must be Peyton’s Fury sisters.
“Striker!”
From within the haze of my rage, I register Peyton’s voice calling my name.
“Striker?” Peyton’s quiet voice shatters my mind. “Let him go.”
