The corridor smells like shattered glass, blood, and something sharp—chemical, manufactured—like the tranquilizer was mixed for livestock.
That detail lodges under my ribs and stays there, heavy as a ruling.
Magnus has Aris in his arms, her body limp against his broad frame, her hair spilling over his forearm like ink poured onto stone. He moves fast but careful, the way a man carries something sacred through a war zone.
Orion is already back in skin—soaked in red, eyes cold enough to freeze a mountain lake. Silas is half-shadow even as a man, blade in hand, scanning angles like he’s mapping the building from the inside out.
And me?
I’m the line between Aris and anyone who thinks they get another chance at her.
“Safe room,” I snap, voice clipped, because if I let anything softer slip
