Raiden’s POV
The twenty feet between the shadows and the bar stool disappeared in three seconds.
I didn’t run, running was for prey. I moved with the lethal intent of a predator finally closing the trap. The air inside the Rusty Anchor was thick with the smell of stale beer and sawdust, but cutting through it all was the sharp, copper tang of ozone bleeding off Callie. She was practically vibrating with it, the lightbulb above her head strobing in frantic bursts of yellow and gray that matched the panic rolling off her in waves.
The man in the flannel shirt was too busy leering to notice the monster coming up behind him. His beer-sour breath fanned across her neck as he leaned in, invading the sanctuary of her personal space.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he slurred, his voice grating against
