Kael’s arm shakes. I feel the urge to kill running through him, every muscle wanting to snap Rhys’s neck or toss him into the chasm. Every instinct screams for blood.
But Kael—he’s not the monster Rhys thinks he is. He’s better.
Kael lets out this raw, guttural cry—pure pain—and smashes Rhys onto the corridor floor, not over the edge. He stands there, looming, his shadow swallowing Rhys whole.
“You’re not even worth the blood on my hands,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.
“You want to protect the Pack? Watch what happens when you turn your back on it. You’re exiled, Rhys. No rank, no name. If I see you again—if you come anywhere near my mate—I won’t kill you. I’ll let her fire do it. And trust me, she’s got a lot less mercy than I do.”
Then Kael turns to me. His whole face
