I spun, bringing the quarterstaff up, but it was already too late.
They poured into the corridor from every direction—crew quarters, cargo hold, even from access panels I hadn't realized were there. A dozen of them. Maybe more. All armed. All moving with coordinated precision.
This wasn't a skeleton crew left behind while the others searched.
This was an ambush.
"Cullen!" I shouted, but he'd already seen them. He fired into the mass of bodies, dropping one, then another, but there were too many. They kept coming, a wave of violence and fury that crashed over us like a tsunami.
I fought.
By the stars, I fought.
The quarterstaff became an extension of my body—spinning, striking, blocking. I caught one attacker across the jaw, heard teeth crack. Reversed and drove the end intoanother's gut. Swept the legs out from under a third. My Vaktaire training took over, muscle memory and instinct guiding every movement.
But they kept coming.
A blade sliced across my shoulder—shallow but painful. I spun and caught my attacker across the throat with the staff, dropping him. But two more took his place. Then three.
Cullen was fighting just as hard, using the blaster as a club when he ran out of charge, his makeshift blade flashing in the emergency lighting. He was good—better than good. He moved like the warrior he'd been trained to be, efficient and brutal.
But we were outnumbered five to one.
Maybe more.
I felt the moment we started losing. It was subtle at first—a step back instead of forward, a defensive block instead of an offensive strike. The tide was turning against us, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.
"Serna!" Cullen's voice, sharp with warning.
I turned and saw the massive Torven coming at me from the side, a shock baton raised. I tried to bring the staff up to block, but someone grabbed it from behind, yanking it from my hands. The Torven's baton caught me in the ribs, and pain exploded through my chest.
I went down hard.
Through the haze of pain, I saw Cullen trying to reach me. He fought like a man possessed, his face twisted with fury and desperation. But they swarmed him—four, five, six of them—dragging him down through sheer weight of numbers.
"No!" I tried to get up, tried to reach him, but hands grabbed me from every direction. Someone kicked my legs out from under me. Another blow caught me across the back of the head, and stars exploded across my vision.
I heard Cullen shouting my name.
I heard the sickening thud of fists hitting flesh.
I heard my own voice screaming in rage and fear and helplessness.
Then rough hands yanked my arms behind my back, binding my wrists with something that bit into my skin. I was hauled to my feet, my head spinning, my ribs screaming in protest.
Across the corridor, they were doing the same to Cullen. His face was bloodied, one eye already swelling shut, but he was still fighting—still trying to break free even as they secured his hands.
Our eyes met.
In that moment, I felt his heartbeat via the true mate connection—racing, furious, terrified. Not for himself. For me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I knew he couldn't hear me over the chaos. "I'm so sorry."
They dragged us through the shuttle, past the guards we'd taken down, past the empty cockpit that had been so close. So impossibly close.
The cargo hold had been converted into something else—a command center, maybe, or an interrogation room. Portable equipment lined the walls, and in the center of it all, standing with his arms crossed and a smile on his face, was Riuondo Barkaze.
He looked exactly as I remembered—tall, powerfully built, with the distinctive Romvesian features and those cold, calculating eyes. But there was something else now. Something that hadn't been there during the trials.
