Page 9

"I had the situation handled before you decided to play cavalry."

"You were on your knees with anti-magic restraints, cutting off your power." He steps closer to claim my personal space with calculated ease. "Call it handled if you like, but the word you're looking for is captured."

His proximity hits me—a wall of solid muscle and controlled violence that coaxes a dangerous, volatile response from my magic. I tilt my chin up to meet his stare, refusing to back down despite the fact that he could snap me in half and barely break a sweat.

"Maybe I wanted them to think they had me. Ever consider that?"

"No. Because that would require a plan beyond 'charge headfirst into danger and hope for the best.'"

"My plans work perfectly fine, thank you."

"Your plans nearly got you killed."

An electric, unnatural stagnancy takes over the room, distinct from any residual magic. His eyes burn a fierce mix of fury and fascination, and I realize we're standing close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises.

"We need to leave." He breaks eye contact first and forces himself to step back. "They'll send reinforcements."

I move toward my desk, stepping carefully around pooled blood. "Give me two minutes."

"We leave now."

"I need my research files." I slide open the bottom drawer and retrieve a waterproof case containing memory cards and printed photographs. "Everything about the cult, the ritual recordings, evidence linking them to the disappearances—it's all here."

Irritation drains from his features, replaced by the sharp, analytical scrutiny of professional interest. "You recorded their ceremony?"

"Audio and video. Plus magical signature analysis of their casting methods." I snap the case shut and tuck it inside my jacket. "This proves they're systematically harvesting paranormal energy for something big."

"Then we definitely leave now."

He moves toward the shattered doorframe, disregarding the need for any agreement, and steps over the body nearest the threshold with the indifference one might show to a misplaced chair. Grabbing my jacket from my desk chair, I shove the waterproof case further into the interior pocket before following him into the hallway.

The brownstone stairwell feels narrower with him in it. His shoulders nearly brush both walls as he descends ahead of me, one hand resting on a weapon concealed by the dark. Three dead cultists bleed into my hardwood floors upstairs. My protective wards are in pieces. And the only thing standing between me and the next round of masks is a wolf shifter who stares at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in the building.

When we hit the street, I turn left, heading away from the black van idling at the curb.

"Where are you going?" he says, stepping into my path to block the sidewalk.

"To my aunt’s house, my way. Thanks for getting me free." I try to sidestep his massive frame, but he mirrors the movement effortlessly.

"Your aunt Estella wants to make sure you make it to her home safely, and I’m the safest transport you got," he states, an unyielding wall of muscle and certainty. "And she's paying triple my usual rate to make sure you arrive breathing."

"I know she hired you," I snap, glaring at the van, then back at the infuriating shifter blocking my exit. "And believe me, if I had it my way, you'd be nowhere near me. The only reason I'm getting in that van is because Estella never reaches out, and she definitely never spends that kind of money unless a situation has spiraled completely out of her control."

"Fine, but if you try to put a bag over my head, I'll hex you into a toad," I mutter, marching toward the back doors.

4

DARIUS

Gun cases and tactical gear dominate the interior, their orderly arrangement reflecting a professional mindset bent on survival over death. Kellan navigates Chicago's late-night streets with ease, eyes flicking between mirrors as he monitors for pursuit. I occupy the passenger seat, twisted around to face our cargo—one stubborn witch whose defiance radiates, a searing, palpable presence that fills the cramped vehicle.

"First rule," I begin, registering how her eyes narrow at the word 'rule.' "No magic without clearance. Your power signature broadcasts like a beacon to anyone tracking Crowe bloodline energy."

Serenity crosses her arms, leather jacket creaking with the movement. "Counter-rule: I'll use my magic whenever I damn well please. Especially if it keeps me alive."

"Your magic nearly got you killed tonight," I point out, while keeping my tone deliberately flat.

"My magic saved my life tonight. Your dramatic entrance was merely cleanup."