Two massive Northern mercenaries stepped into the dark bedroom, matte black tactical gear, suppressed automatic rifles sweeping the corners for magical threats.
They didn't flinch when their tactical goggles found me sitting on the cold floor beside the bed, shaking combat pistol aimed at the lead man's Kevlar-plated chest.
"Drop the weapon, asset," he commanded instantly. Cold, flat, professional through his dark tactical mask. "You don't possess the physical strength to reliably cycle a legacy combat firearm, nor the combat accuracy to hit center mass under extreme stress. You are unharmed. Do not escalate the extraction."
My shaking finger tightened on the trigger.
He was right. I was a powerless, unsealed omega. I didn't have the biological strength to fight professional legacy killers.
But I had the world-ending grief fueling my absolute, terrified refusal to be put back in the Northern cage.
I squeezed the trigger.
The pistol roared in the small space, the massive recoil snapping both my fragile wrists backward. The terrified, unguided shot went wide, burying itself in the white plaster ceiling above the lead mercenary's head in a shower of dust.
Before I could lower the smoking barrel, he crossed the small bedroom in two blindingly fast strides.
He didn't use his rifle. He swatted the heavy pistol from my grip with the hardened back of his armored glove. The weapon shattered against the far stone wall.
He gripped my upper arm with bruising force and hauled me to my bare feet. The stabilization artifact pulsed agonizingly, reacting to the hostile alpha aura pressing in, desperately trying to locate Hayes, Tristan, or Chris to anchor against the threat.
It found nothing but static air.
"Asset secured. Moving to primary transport," he barked into his shoulder comms unit.
He dragged me out of the bedroom and into the ruined smoky hallway.
We entered the sitting room.
The carnage stopped my frantic struggling instantly.
The safehouse was obliterated. The front doors were gone, the stone walls scarred with black magical scorch burns and bullet impacts.
Tristan was lying motionless near the overturned mahogany table, a dark smear of blood across his pale cheek, his electric aura absent. Chris was slumped against the sparking, ruined console, fighting just to remain conscious against the crippling biological effects of the nullification blast.
And Hayes?—
Hayes was kneeling on the hard stone floor near the hallway entrance. A horrifying, expanding pool of bright red blood spread sluggishly across the dark tiles beneath his knees. He was breathing — harsh, wet, and ragged — but not moving.
He just looked up at the mercenary holding my arm, the feral gold in his dark eyes burning with helpless, absolute protective fury.
I'm so sorry.I mouthed the words to his bloody face, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.I'm so sorry.
If I had trusted him. If I had let him bite me. If I had been brave for sixty seconds.
"How fascinating."
The smooth voice slithered out from the ruined entryway.
Trent Hawthorne stepped carefully over the shattered remains of the front door, dusting the pristine sleeve of his tailored dark suit jacket. He walked slowly into the ruined, red-lit sitting room, his cruel smirk radiating absolute, sickening victory.
"I admit I didn't expect the legendary Aldridge Heir to bleed quite so quickly," he drawled, stopping halfway across the room to look down at Hayes's kneeling form with bored, aristocratic disgust. "A rather pathetic perimeter for three Alphas, given the geopolitical value of the asset you were attempting to hoard."
Trent turned away from Hayes — dismissing the bleeding Heir as less than dirt — and walked toward me. The mercenary tightened his grip on my arm.
"You monster," I spat, my voice raw and shaking. "You nearly killed them. They were trying to protect me from you."
"Protect you?" Trent laughed softly — a cold, humorless sound, reaching out to trace the high collar of my velvet dress.
