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I dodge left as hexed magic sears the air where my head was moments before, the corrosive energy dissolving the bookshelf into charred, crumbling wreckage. Ancient texts burst into green flames, centuries of occult knowledge reduced to ash in seconds.

"Those were first editions, you absolute barbarians!"

My athame slices through the nearest assassin's spell matrix and disrupts his casting long enough for me to launch a concussive blast that sends him crashing into my kitchen counter. The impact shatters dishes and sends my coffee maker flying across the room, where it disintegrates into ceramic fragments.

The second assassin produces enchanted chains from beneath his robes—specialized witch-binders bearing anti-magic runes that thrum malevolent energy. The metal contorts, twisting into serpentine coils that ferally lash out and snare my wrists.

"Cute accessories. Very bondage chic."

Luminescent energy races along my forearms as I drag every ounce of power into a barrier spell. The chains strike my magical shield and recoil, but their touch sparks a web of fractures that shatters my defenses across every inch of the barrier.

My magic has always been a heavy, thrumming weight—larger than anyone else in my family, requiring constant, exhausting discipline to keep leashed. For twenty-nine years, my control was absolute. But lately, ever since I started investigating this coven, the power has felt volatile, straining against my mental barriers like it wants to break free.

The third assassin flanks me, hexed energy building between his fingers in sickly green orbs. I'm trapped between them, my failing barrier buckling as that new instability makes my focus waver.

The witch-binders strike again, punching through my weakened shield. Metal wraps around my left wrist as a burning cold sensation sends agony shooting up my arm. The anti-magic runes activate and sever my connection to selenic power in one brutal cut.

"Fuck!"

My knees hit the hardwood floor as magical feedback crashes through my system. The assassin with the chains advances, more restraints materializing in his hands. Without my magic, I'm simply a headstrong woman with a knife facing three supernatural killers.

The apartment door explodes inward.

A massive figure fills the doorway—six and a half feet of bronzed skin and corded muscle packed into black tactical gear. Dark hair, cropped short on the sides, frames a face built of hard angles and harder decisions. Amber eyes burn with beastly light. They sweep the room once, an automatic assessment for threats that mirrors how others count exits. He glides into the apartment, his fluid grace speaking of military training and supernatural strength while keeping every step cautious and every breath controlled.

"Three against one. Those are some poor odds." His voice possesses the rumble of barely leashed power.

The nearest assassin turns, hexed magic crackling between his fingers. "This doesn't concern you, wolf."

"Wrong answer."

The stranger moves faster than human reflexes should allow. His fist connects with the assassin's masked face, and the sound of impact echoes through my apartment like a gunshot. Mask fragments scatter across my floor as the cultist's head snaps back at an impossible angle.

The remaining two assassins converge on him, but he slides between their attacks, his movements fluid and unobstructed. Claws extend from his fingertips—a partial, lethal shift, swift enough to open the second assassin's throat in a spray of arterial blood.

The final cultist with the witch-binders backs toward my bedroom, chains writhing in his grip. "No one can stop what is to come. You will serve our purpose, just watch."

My rescuer's eyes flare. "Not tonight."

He lunges forward animalistically, catching the assassin by the throat. The witch-binders clatter to the floor as a devastating pop snaps their wielder's neck.

The heavy hush between us coils tight, its taut energy ready to snap. He straightens to his full height, surveying my destroyed apartment detachedly while three corpses leak blood across my hardwood floors.

I pry the witch-binder from my wrist, the metal clattering against broken ceramics. The anti-magic runes leave angry red welts across my skin, but feeling returns to my fingertips as power drums to life.

"That was dramatically unnecessary."

His gaze snaps to me, his eyes narrowing. "Did your aunt not explain the situation when she hired me?"

"She mentioned it," I say, offering a careless shrug. "I just didn’t care enough to listen. Explain what, exactly?"

He kicks aside mask fragments, blood spattering his boots. "That returning here alone was monumentally stupid. Three professional assassins nearly had you gift-wrapped for whatever ritual they're planning."

I snort and push myself upright despite the lingering ache where the witch-binder burned my wrist. "I can protect myself, thanks."

"Clearly. Your defensive strategy of nearly getting captured was particularly inspired." His voice drips sarcasm as he gestures at the carnage surrounding us.

Heat flares along my cheekbones, dangerously angry and vulnerable, until I shove it back into the dark. He commands my home like he belongs here and radiates controlled power and devastating competence. My pulse quickens, driven by something far more potent than adrenaline.