Guilt doesn’t care how many miles you run.
It coats the inside of my throat every morning. It follows me into sleep. It sits behind my eyes during Church meetings when I’m supposed to be focused on threat assessments and territory reports, and all I can do is watch Crave across the table. Watch him moving with that new Apostate grace, healed, alive, commanding the room the way he always has, and feel the exact weight of what I almost lost.
WhatIfailed to protect.
My bloodline has carried one purpose since Khaos himself shaped the first lycans from dying wolves and fallen warriors. Protect the vampire, guard the bloodline, and die before you let them fall. Twelve generations of my ancestors upheld that oath in blood, bone, and breath. Twelve generations who stood between Original darkness and the chaos hungry for their power, who were forged specifically for this singular duty.
AndIam the one who hung, suspended in the air while Viktor drove an Original-forged blade through Crave’s chest.
Not once.
Not twice.
But three fucking times.
Each strike punching through ribs that should have been invulnerable, spilling blood that should have stayed eternal.
My Alpha.
My brother.
The vampire I’ve been bound to for over two centuries, the one my family lineage has protected since the First Vampire rose from darkness.
Bleeding out.
Dying.
While I hung there, a puppet with cut strings, absolutely fucking helpless.
The lycan inside me howls at the memory, clawing against the cage of my human form.
It wants out.
Wants to run.
To hunt.
To tear something apart to prove we’re still capable of violence.
That we’re still worthy of the mantle we carry.
But what’s the fucking point?
When it mattered most, when Crave needed me, I was nothing.
A snarl rips from my throat before I can stop it. The sound echoes across the empty parking lot, feral and raw. My hands ball into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The pain grounds me,barely.Keeps the beast from surging too close to the surface, where it might do something I’ll regret.
“You keep growling at nothing, brother, and people are gonna think you’ve gone feral.”
I don’t turn at Scorch’s voice. I don’t need to. I feel his heat signature approaching from behind, the air around him shimmering with barely contained Dragonfire. He stops beside me, silent for a moment, then lights a cigarette. The flame dances at the tip before settling into a steady burn.
“I’m fine,” I say, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
“Bullshit!” He exhales smoke, and it curls through the air in patterns that look almost alive. “You’ve been snapping at everyone for weeks. Jet nearly phased through a wall yesterday when you went off on him for leaving his bike in your spot.Your fucking spot.Since when doyougive a shit about parking?”
“Since Ifucking say so!”The words come out harsher than I intend, edged with a growl that makes Scorch’s eyebrows rise. He doesn’t back down, though. Dragons don’t scare easily, especially not from lycans they’ve known for decades.
“There it is,” he says quietly. “That rage you’ve been choking on.”
