My fist connects with his face. Once. Twice. A third time. Each impact sends blood spattering across the floor. His nose caves. His cheek splits. His teeth crack against my knuckles.
"Legion!" Colt's voice sounds miles away.
I keep hitting. Four. Five. Six. Blood slicks my hands, warm and satisfying. I feel nothing but the rhythm of destruction. Seven. Eight.
"This is for touching her," I growl, landing another blow. "This is for drugging her." Another. "This is for thinking you own her."
The next hit lands with a wet crunch. Marcus gurgles beneath me, face unrecognizable. Something in my chest breaks open—not a rib, but something deeper.
The demon they named me for, clawing its way out.
"LEGION!" Colt's voice cuts through the red fog. "THINK ABOUT SAVANNAH!"
I pause, fist raised, blood dripping between my fingers. I turn to see her watching, eyes glassy but fixed on me.
There's a soft pop and hiss. Marcus's body goes slack beneath me as Colt's tranquilizer dart finds its mark in his thigh.
"Get off him," Colt hisses, pulling at my shoulder. "He's done. Look ather. Look at Savannah."
Her name breaks through. I push off Marcus, leaving him crumpled on the floor, face a ruin of blood and bone. Still breathing. The senator's son lives.
For now.
I move to the bed, finding a scalpel on a metal tray beside it. The sight of it—clean, precise, meant for her skin—makes bile rise in my throat. I use it to slice through the zip ties binding her wrists.
Her skin is raw underneath, bleeding in places where she fought against the restraints. Bruises circle her ankles. Her lip is split at the corner. But her eyes—they find mine, recognition flickering through the drug haze.
"Legion," she whispers, voice cracked from disuse or screaming. I don't want to know which.
"I'm here." I gather her up, one arm under her knees, one supporting her back. She weighs nothing. "I've got you."
She starts to cry then, silent tears tracking down her face. Each one feels like a knife between my ribs as I carry her from that room.
"We're leaving," I murmur against her hair, keeping my voice low and steady despite the rage still burning through me. "You're okay now. I've got you. Nobody's gonna touch you again."
Outside, the night air hits us. Clean. Cold. Real.
I lift her onto Cassia, who stands perfectly still, like she knows. Savannah's fingers curl weakly into the mare's mane.
"Can you hold on?" I ask her.
She nods, eyes clearer now, like the fresh air is burning away some of the fog. I mount my own horse, muscles screaming in protest.
Colt appears, his horse jogging excitedly. "We need to move. Now."
We start down the mountain, away from the cabin where Marcus lies bleeding but alive. Away from the nightmare. Toward my trailer, toward something like safety.
But the demon in me isn't satisfied.
It wants to go back.
Wants to finish what I started.
And part of me knows I have woken something up that I can't put back to sleep.
We ride through darkness, three shadows cuttin’ across Ashby land. The horses' hooves beat a rhythm like war drums against packed earth. Savannah slumps forward on Cassia, leaning onto her neck. Her fingers white-knuckled in the mare's mane. Her breathing comes shallow. Too shallow.
Cassia steps carefully. Like she knows.
