The building is a four-story walk-up in the oldest part of the city. The lobby door is propped open with a rock. I take the stairs to the third floor, and I’m halfway down the hall when something stops me cold.
Blood.
I’ve never scented her blood before. But my beast knows it the way it knows its own heartbeat.
My wolf is sitting up inside me, its fur standing on end. Blood is pounding in my ears. My whole world slows down for a moment as the door that I’ve forcibly kept closed for the past two months is forced open, my wolf clawing at it.
No.
No, it’s not possible.
My claws unsheathe as my wolf’s rage fills me.
My mate’s blood.
Every sense I have locks on to the door at the end of the hallway. Three heartbeats, and one of them is weak and stuttering. My wolf howls in fury, and my body is already moving, throwing itself against the door before I’ve made the decision, uncaring of how the impact forces it off its hinges.
The scene I burst into has me seeing red. Two large men are crowded around a figure on the floor. One of them has his boot raised. Miranda is curled on her side, her body limp as if all the fight has left her.
My hands shift before I’ve crossed the threshold, claws out.
The first man turns at the sound, and I am already on him. My hand closes around his throat, and the force of it drives him back into the wall. Up close, I can smell the blood on his hands.
My mate’s blood.
The wolf goes to a place I haven’t been in years, something beyond rage, something that doesn’t have a name in any human language. I lean in and tighten my grip, and his pulse hammers against my palm, fast now, afraid.
Good.
He should be afraid. He swings a fist into my jaw. I don’t feel it. I feel nothing except the weight of his neck in my grip and somewhere behind me, Miranda’s heartbeat, faint and skipping,and the sound of her breathing, shallow and wet, each exhale a small effort.
She is still alive. She is still alive, and I am going to make sure Kozlov and his men never touch her again.
His face is going dark. I hear the second man moving, and I release the first, let him drop, and turn.
The second man hasn’t run. He’s standing his ground, something in his hand catching the light, and he’s fast, faster than I expected. The blade catches my forearm before I close the distance. I don’t stop. I have him by the collar, and I drive him back into the kitchen counter. He goes over, taking everything on it with him. He scrambles to his feet. The fear coming off him now is sharp and acrid, flooding the room, and my wolf drinks it in without satisfaction because it is not enough; it will never be enough for what I found when I burst through that door.
I make sure he doesn’t get up again.
When it’s done, the apartment is quiet except for one thing.
Miranda’s breathing. Shallow and uneven.
I can’t get to her fast enough. My hands are shaking as I go down on one knee. Blood is matted into her hair at the temple, a gash above her brow still seeping. Her lip is split badly, her cheek swollen enough to distort her face. One eye is completely shut, the skin around it gone deep purple. Her left wrist, already wrapped from before, is wrenched at a wrong angle, clutched against her chest.
Bruises cover her arms where they grabbed her. When I run my hand carefully down her side, she makes a sound, even unconscious, and I stop.
“Miranda.”
Nothing.
I press two fingers to her throat.
Her pulse is there.
I take a shuddering breath as I cradle her in my arms. Taking out my phone, I call my alpha.
Ramirez answers after two rings. Before he can say anything, I say hoarsely, “Two men down. Miranda’s apartment.” I give him the address. “She needs a healer. Now.”
