Rell watched her from a few feet away—eyes locked on the rise and fall of her shoulders, the tension in her crouch, the way her claws flexed like a predator testing its grip. Gods, she was beautiful like this—terrifying and wild, a streak of blood along her jaw, her golden-ringed eyes gleaming in the mist.
But she’d been shifted too long. He could see it—the way her breath came faster than it should, the slight twitch in her jaw, her lips curling in a snarl that had no words behind it. Her instincts had taken the reins. And if he didn’t stop her now, she’d cross a line she couldn’t uncross.
As much as some part of him wanted to see her rip these bastards apart, he couldn’t let her become that.
Rell moved behind her, quiet and careful.
“Elora,” he said lowly. No response. Her claws pressed in harder, the man beneath her sobbing.
Rell lunged forward and grabbed her under the arms, hauling her up and off the Snatcher in one fluid motion.
She shrieked—feral, enraged—and twisted, claws slashing wildly. One caught the edge of his shoulder, slicing fabric.
“Elora!” he barked, pinning her arms against his chest. “It’s me.”
She froze.
Chest heaving. Claws trembling. Her golden eyes locked on his, unblinking. Slowly, her breath steadied, and recognition bloomed behind the haze of rage.
“He’s mine,” she hissed, voice still low and primal. “He was mine.”
“Maybe later,” Rell said, setting her down and turning toward the Snatcher, who was now trying to crawl away. “Right now, he’s going to answer some questions.”
The man struggled, rolling onto his back, every breath a frantic, wet gasp. Blood ran down his temple, streaking his filthy face, but Rell didn’t give the bastard an inch. He crouched beside him, dagger resting on the man’s cheekbone.
“Talk. Are there more of you?”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded frantically. “Y…yes. Half a dozen, maybe more. Camped south, near the ridge.”
“And why are you here?” Rell pressed, the blade nudging closer.
The Snatcher paused.
Wrong fucking move.
Rell pressed the dagger in, just hard enough to bead blood from the skin. “I’m not patient. Say something useful.”
“They—they said to grab girls,” the man blurted, tripping over his own breath in his scramble to speak. “Any young ones we found in the woods. Said Kilfaire’s about to be full of Empire buyers. That the top clients were coming. Paying high for something special.”
Rell’s blood ran cold and then boiled. The Empire. Those bastards. He could feel the rage building like a storm, dark and violent, pounding through his veins.
He couldn't—wouldn’t—let them get awaywith it.
With a wordless snarl, he grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him forward, bending him like a rag-doll to his will. The rage unfolded within him as he smashed the bastard's skull against a nearby rock.
The crack echoed through the trees.
Silence followed.
Rell stood slowly, breathing hard, blood dripping from his hand. He didn’t look at her.
He crouched beside the nearest body, and rifled through the man’s belt pouches, pulling a few alchemy vials—standard enhancement blends, not anything special. One had a red wax seal. Pain duller. He pocketed it. Another had a coil of wire and a tiny pulse shard—useful for quick binds. That, too, went into his pack.
“Elora,” he called softly as he straightened.
She hadn’t moved.
Still crouched where he’d left her, knees tucked under her, arms limp at her sides. Her golden-ringed eyes were locked on the blood-slicked moss, unblinking. Her breathing had slowed, but not like she was calm—more like she was somewhere far away.
