Krix laughed—a sound like rocks grinding together. “Or what? You’ll purify me?” He dropped the Saber, who collapsed gasping, and stalked toward Elsa with the patience of someone who knew his prey had nowhere to go. “I watched what you did to that core. Vask thinks you’re Lux’s blessing made flesh. I think you’re a freak who got lucky.” His claws flexed, scarred knuckles cracking. “Let’s test which of us is right.”
The blow came without warning—a backhand that caught her across the face and sent her spinning into the wall. Pain exploded through her skull, white-hot and blinding. She tasted blood, felt it running warm from her split lip, her cheekbone already swelling.
And somewhere deep inside her chest, something snapped awake.
The bond.
It roared to life like a furnace, flooding her with heat and fury that wasn’t entirely her own. She could feel Sylas through it, feel his rage spiking like a blade through her consciousness, feel him turning toward her with every instinct screaming.
Krix grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off her feet. “You are nothing but a weak pet blessed by the goddess.” His voice dropped, almost wondering. “I can smell him on you—his mark, his claim.” His claws dimpled her skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. “When I bring you back to Vask, he’ll be happy to finally be able to—”
Something cracked inside her. Not bone. Something deeper.
The bond pulsed—Sylas’s rage pouring through her like molten iron, filling the hollow spaces where fear should have lived. She felt his fury, his desperation, his absolute refusal to lose her. And beneath it, something older. Wilder. The predator instinct that had kept humans alive, preventing them from being prey.
Survive. Protect. Fight.
Elsa’s hands found the chain still attached to her wrist cuffs, the length of cold metal that had bound her since Vask’s guards had taken her. She’d almost forgotten it was there.
She didn’t forget now.
The bond screamed through her blood—not just Sylas’s rage anymore, but her own fury rising to meet it. For Rowan, strapped to a table while they drained his blood. For Milo, his hands burned black by corrupted tears. For Mia and Ari, huddled in darkness for three days. For herself, treated like a thing to be used and discarded.
Mine,something snarled in her chest.They’re mine, and you don’t get to touch them.
She swung.
The chain caught Krix across the face—not enough to hurt him, not really, but enough to surprise him. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second, and Elsa twisted free, dropping to the ground and rolling between his legs before he could grab her again.
“Get them out!” she screamed at the Sabers, scrambling to her feet. “Get Rowan and Milo out, NOW—”
Krix spun, his amber eyes blazing with fury. “You dare—”
Elsa swung the chain again. This time he caught it, yanked her forward, and she used the momentum—launching herself at him, legs wrapping around his torso, the chain looping over his head and across his throat.
He was massive. His claws found her thigh immediately, tearing through fabric and flesh, and she screamed—but she didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. The bond roared approval, Sylas’s presence burning through her like wildfire, filling her with strength that had no business belonging to a human body.
Behind her, she could hear the Sabers moving, hear Rowan’s hoarse voice urging Milo forward. Every second she held on was a second they had to run.
“You don’t get to have them,” she snarled against Krix’s ear, and the voice that came out was barely human—too low, too fierce, shaped by the bond-fury flooding her veins. “You don’t get to touch them. You don’t get to hurt anyone else—”
Krix’s claws dug deeper. Her vision went white at the edges. But she could feel Sylas getting closer through the bond, could feel him running, could feel his terror and his pride tangled together into something that defied naming.
Hold on. I’m coming. Hold on.
She held on.
“That’s enough.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a growl so deep it seemed to resonate in the stone itself. Krix’s head snapped toward the source just as Sylas emerged from the shadows like a nightmare given form.
He wasn’t beautiful in this moment. He was terrifying—hackles raised, fangs bared, eyes blazing with a fury that had nothing human in it. Blood of his enemies still matted the furalong his ribs from the fight in the holding cells. The Alpha King unleashed, and the tunnel suddenly felt very, very small.
Krix went still beneath her. For one heartbeat—just one—something flickered in those amber eyes. Then he laughed, a wet, ugly sound.
“Alpha King. Come to watch your pet die? Vask will be pleased when I bring him your—”
“The priest is dead.”