The first bullet didn't even tear the bespoke wool of his suit. It caught the heavy silver cufflink at his wrist, sparking violently before ricocheting into the damp concrete ceiling.
Jane didn't flinch. She just stared at the tiny wisp of gray smoke curling off the metal.
Ryan’s three elite guards had drawn their weapons the second the order left his mouth. They were supposed to be the deadliest enforcers in the Thorne Pack. They were dead before the smoke cleared.
Michael didn’t shift. He didn’t roar. He simply vanished from the center of the room, a blur of terrifying, pre-shifted speed.
The first guard’s neck snapped with the crisp, hollow sound of a dry branch breaking under a boot. Michael dropped him and caught the second guard by the throat, using the man’s own momentum to slam
